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Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to 
The  Play 


By 

Alexander  Woollcott 


Illustrated 


G.    P.    Putnam's    Sons 
New    York    and     London 

Ube  TknicUerbocfter  ipress 
1922 


TZ^I- 


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A  4 


Copyright,  1922 

by 

Alexander  Woollcott 


Made  in  the  United  States  of  America 


/T,^ 


To 
KATE  DOUGLAS  WIGGIN 


My  dear  Kate  Douglas  Wiggin: 

Surely  it  is  unnecessary  to  explain  why,  of  all  the 
books  I  might  possibly  provoke,  this  one  must  needs 
especially  be  dedicated  to  you — you  who  rode  with  Mr. 
Dickens  to  Portland  long  ago  and  told  him  why  you 
liked  "David  Copperfield"  best  of  all  and  what  parts  of 
his  novels  were  rather  dull  and  why  your  yellow  dog 
was  named  Pip  and  how  your  other  dog  (who  had 
fought  with  Pip  in  your  garden)  was,  inevitably,  named 
Mr.  Pocket. 

Nor  need  there  be  any  explaining  of  a  Dickens  book 
compiled  by  one  who  was  brought  up  on  his  stories. 
Without  them  I  should  hardly  have  had  the  key  to  all 
that  my  grandfather  and  my  mother  were  wont  to  say 
across  the  head  of  this  young  Brooks  of  Sheffield.  One 
of  the  last  memories  I  have  of  my  grandfather  is  of  an 
autocrat  of  nearly  ninety  years,  sitting  fiercely  on  the 
vine-hung  verandah  of  his  old  house  down  in  Jersey. 
In  his  declining  years  he  had  relinquished  little  by  little 
the  supervision  of  his  farm  and  his  factory.  But  he 
still  kept  an  eye  on  those  hollyhocks  of  his.  And  no 
sooner  did  he  suspect  the  roaming  chickens  of  having 
designs  on  them,  than  up  would  go  his  cane  in  the 


vi  To  Kate  Douglas  Wiggin 

fashion  of  a  war-club  and  down  the  steps  he  would 
charge,  roaring  as  he  went  (to  summon  aid  from  what- 
ever stray  grandchildren  might  be  within  earshot): 
"Janet,  Donkeys!" 

But  I  should,  perhaps,  tell  how  this  fresh  gathering 
of  the  Dickens  material  came  about.  It  really  happened 
last  Christmas  Eve;  when,  in  the  early  afternoon,  I 
encountered  on  Fifth  Avenue  the  redoubtable  J.  M. 
Kerrigan  of  the  Abbey  Theatre,  Dublin.  Kerrigan 
always  has  to  stop  and  think  when  you  ask  him  what 
country  he  is  in  and  he  has  a  delightful  way  of  never 
being  committed  to  any  destination.  Therefore  he 
was  all  in  readiness  when  I  suggested  that  we  make  the 
round  of  the  studios,  he  to  sing  Christmas  Waits  for  our 
drinks.    He  sang  many  old  snatches  that  afternoon. 

So  it  was  twilight  when,  in  high  good  humor,  we 
reached  my  quarters  at  last,  where  I  went  to  work  on 
the  tying  up  of  some  Christmas  parcels  and  Kerrigan, 
infected  by  the  spirit  of  the  day,  groped  instinctively 
for  my  set  of  Dickens  on  the  darkened  shelves.  I  have 
an  indistinct  recollection  that  I  caught  him  looking 
disappointedly  for  Micawber  in  ' '  Dombey  and  Son ."  I 
remember  for  sure  that  just  when  I  was  lording  it  over 
the  fellow  because  he  had  never  made  the  acquaintance 
of  my  friend,  Mr.  Wopsle,  he  countered  by  introducing 
me  to  Dullborough  Town,  which,  in  all  its  charm  and 
prophetic  humor,  had  escaped  me  until  that  day.  Said 
Kerrigan : 


To  Kate  Douglas  Wiggin  vii 

"Isn't  it  a  cruel  pity  that  all  this  Dickens  talk  and 
streeleen  on  the  theatre  is  not  caught  up  in  one  volume 
where  a  man  could  be  finding  it  of  a  fine  Christmas 
afternoon?" 

Some  days  later,  I  poked  about  in  the  library  in  quest 
of  such  a  book  and  there  was  none.  So  here  it  is.  I 
hand  it  to  you,  knowing  you  will  find  pleasure  in  it, 
because  so  many  parts  of  it  are  beautiful. 

I  remember,  after  a  matinee  of  "Justice"  in  which  the 
audience's  interest  in  Mr.  Barrymore's  performance  had 
been  shared  by  an  equally  striking  and  much  more 
emotional  performance  in  the  proscenium  box  by  an 
actress  of  note,  Barry  more  vowed  he  had  never  dared 
dream  he  would  one  day  star  with  her  in  New  York. 
And  I  rather  suspect  Mr.  Dickens  never  guessed  he 
would  one  day  write  a  book  in  collaboration  with 
Your  obedient  servant, 

Alexander  Woollcott. 

New  York,  1922 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  Immortals    .......  3 

The  Thwarted  Actor  .  .  .         .  .12 

The  Stage  in  Dickens's  Letters         ...  33 

I,     The  Macready  Letters          ....  37 

IL     Miscellaneous  Letters        ....  57 

The  Stage  in  Dickens's  Novels          ...  83 

The  Vincent  Crummles  Company        .          .          .  133 

The  Dramatizations  of  Dickens         .          ,          .  223 

Sleight  of  Hand        ......  237 


iz 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


FACING 

PAGE 


Dickens  in  Full  Make-Up  .         Frontispiece 

(From  the  Shaw  Collection) 

Sir  Henry  Irving  as  Jingle        ....         6 

Charles  Dickins  (1839) 12 

(Outline  of  the  Painting  by  Maclise) 

Dickens  as  Playwright       .  .  .  .  .16 

(From  the  Shaw  Collection) 

Dickens  as  Stage  Manager         ....       20 

(From  the  Manuscript  in  the  Widener  Library.  Harvard 
University) 

Relic  of  Dickens  the  Stage  Manager       .  .       22 

(From  the  Widener  Library,  Harvard  University) 

Macready  as  Alfred  Evelyn      .  .  .  .46 

A  Dramatization  of  "A  Tale  of  Two  Cities"  at 

the  Lyceum  Theatre,  London,  1860     .  224 

(From  the  Shaw  Collection) 

The  Second  Presentation  of  "Pickwick  Club," 

Royal  City  of  London  Theatre,  March  28, 

1837.     This  Rare  Bill  Advertises  the  Second 

Performances  of  the  Second  Version  of  the 

"Pickwick  Papers,"  the  First  Version  being 

THAT  OF  William  Leman  Rede  at  the  Adelphi 

in  October,  1836 230 

(From  the  collection  of  Milton  J.  Stone,  President  of  the 
Boston  Branch  of  the  "Dickens  Fellowship") 

Boz's  Juba  Showbill  .....     234 


Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 


THE  IMMORTALS 

IN  the  writings  of  the  younger  critics  and  in  the  small 
talk  of  the  younger  playwrights,  there  is  evidence 
from  time  to  time  of  a  notion  that  the  theatre  of  today 
is  something  quite  apart  from  the  theatre  of  our  grand- 
fathers. You  will  hear  them  speaking  of  the  old  days 
with  a  wondering  pity,  as  of  a  remote  and  rather  fabu- 
lous time  and  quite  as  though  Ibsen  had  definitely 
and  finally  exorcised  some  grotesque  spirit  from  the 
playhouse.  It  is  true  that  the  slamming  of  Nora's 
door  jarred  the  house  and  startled  a  thousand  drowsy 
fellows  into  a  new  wakefulness,  but,  as  with  the  fleeing 
Peter  Pan  when  the  nursery  window  was  nipped  shut 
after  him,  so  here  too,  perhaps,  something  was  left 
behind. 

When  a  younger  worker  in  the  theatre  is  caught  red- 
handed  in  the  act  of  speaking  of  naturalism  as  something 
invented  in  the  spring  of  1896  it  is  well  to  take  him  aside 
and  reread  him  Hamlet's  advice  to  the  players.  And  it 
is  well  occasionally  to  take  all  of  them  by  the  scruffs  of 
their  necks  and  set  them  down  at  the  feet  of  that  Eng- 

3 


4         Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

lishman  who  wrote  of  the  theatre  of tener  and  with  more 
insight  than  any  one  else  of  his  century  or  ours. 

Turn  to  his  pages  and  find  again  how  changeless  the 
theatre  is.  Somehow  within  its  gates  time  and  place 
lose  something  of  their  force.  The  American  adrift  in 
the  streets  of  Paris  or  Vienna  may  be  conscious  of  an 
alien  world  jostling  all  around  him,  but  once  he  crosses 
the  theatre's  threshold,  he  sniffs  a  familiar  aroma  and 
hears  a  familiar  overtone  which  tell  him  that  here  at 
last  is  something  akin  to  what  he  had  known  back  home. 
Like  the  gypsies,  the  people  of  the  stage  really  know  no 
country,  nor  can  it  ever  be  said  of  any  one  of  them  that 
he  belongs  to  this  decade  or  that.  They  all  stand  a  little 
apart,  unfused  with  the  life  of  the  community  surround- 
ing them,  untouched  by  the  passing  years,  ageless  while 
the  world  grows  old  and  tired. 

That  is  why  the  mummers  of  Dickens  are,  in  some 
ways,  more  vivid  and  more  contemporary  than  any  of 
his  people.  Mrs.  Gamp,  Sam  Weller,  Uriah  Heep,  even 
Trabb's  boy,  may  be  receding  ever  so  slowly  toward  the 
horizon  of  the  quaint  and  the  half-believable.  But  not 
Miss  Henrietta  Petowker  of  the  Theatre  Royal,  Drury 
Lane,  "the  only  sylph  who  could  stand  upon  one  leg 
and  play  the  tambourine  on  her  other  knee,  like  a 
sylph."  Not  Mr.  Wopsle  of  London  and  Elsinore. 
That  is  why  as  his  motley  pageant  swaggers  by — fading 
ingenues,  embittered  translators,  wily  bill-posters, 
despondent  critics,   soiled  supernumeraries  and  all — 


The  Immortals  5 

it  is  easy  for  you  to  remember  some  perfect  counterpart 
of  each  and  every  one  encountered  the  day  before  on 
Broadway  or  the  Strand. 

Indeed,  if  some  fatuous  publisher  were  ever  to  order 
a  revision  of  Dickens  in  order  to  bring  his  tales  of  the 
theatre  up  to  date,  what  could  one  add?  And  what 
could  one  leave  out?  Not  thrice-gifted  Snevellicci's 
scrap-book  of  press  notices,  accidentally  left  lying 
around  to  catch  the  eye  of  her  handsome  caller.  Not 
(while  the  memory  of  wartime  pilfering  is  with  us  yet) 
the  producer  who  enriched  his  repertoire  by  translating 
pieces  from  the  foreign  stage,  renaming  them  and  pre- 
tending blandly  that  they  were  creatures  of  his  own 
teeming  brain. 

Not  the  Crummleses,  bless  them — neither  the  per- 
manently arrested  girlishness  of  Miss  Ninetta  of  that 
tribe,  nor  the  fire  and  the  glint  that  were  in  each 
Crummies  eye  when  word  spread  backstage  from  the 
stalls  that  a  London  manager  was  out  front,  the  dread 
London  manager,  who  was  seen  to  smile  broadly  at  the 
antics  indulged  in  by  some  paltry  comedian  during  Mrs. 
Crummles's  biggest  scene.  Can't  you  picture  the  black 
look  Mr.  Crummies  gave  the  wretched  offender  then 
and  there  and  the  week's  notice  he  gave  him  as  soon  as 
the  curtain  was  down? 

It  is  preposterous  to  suggest  of  Mrs.  Crummies  that 
she  has  passed  away.  A  deathless  lady,  she,  and  one 
of  a  throng  of  immortals.    That  complete  Dickensian, 


6         Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

G.  K.  Chesterton,  has  spoken  of  Dickens  as  the  last  of 
the  great  mythologists,  one  who  sent  out  into  the  world 
a  troupe  of  fairies,  fairies  like  Sam  Weller  and  Mr.  Pick- 
wick, fairies  because  you  cannot,  by  any  feat  of  the 
imagination,  think  of  them  as  having  died.  If  you  go 
in  the  right  spirit  any  night  now  to  an  inn  at  some  Eng- 
lish crossroads,  says  Chesterton,  and  sit  you  down  over 
a  mug  of  ale,  as  like  as  not  the  door  will  swing  wide  and 
in  will  come  Mr.  Pickwick,  spectacles,  neckerchief, 
gaiters  and  all.  And  any  visitor  to  New  York,  loitering 
along  Forty-fourth  Street  on  any  pleasant  afternoon,  is 
only  too  likely  to  encounter  Mrs.  Crummies  out  for  the 
air — Mrs.  Crummies  treading  the  pavement  as  if  she 
were  going  to  immediate  execution,  with  an  animating 
consciousness  of  innocence  and  that  heroic  fortitude 
which  virtue  alone  inspires. 

Dear  Mrs.  Crummies.  Her  husband  saw  her  first 
standing  upon  her  head  on  the  butt-end  of  a  spear, 
surrounded  with  blazing  fireworks.  *'Such  grace!" 
he  used  to  say  afterwards,  "Coupled  with  such  dignity! 
I  adored  her  from  that  moment." 

And  all  of  us  have  met  that  changeless  camp  follower 
— Mr.  Waldengarver's  dresser,  the  one  who  could  see  the 
performance  of  "Hamlet"  only  in  terms  of  his  own  part 
in  it,  and  who,  watching  from  the  wings  during  the  mur- 
der of  Polonius,  felt  that  his  star  might  have  made  more 
of  his  stockings.  "You're  out  in  your  reading  of  Ham- 
let, Mr.  Waldengarver,  when  you  get  your  legs  in  profile." 


Sir  Henry  Irving  as  "Jingle" 


The  Immortals  7 

Memories  of  countless  rag-tag-and-bobtail  produc- 
tions in  our  own  time  are  stirred  by  that  performance 
of  "Hamlet." 

On  our  arrival  in  Denmark  [said  Pip],  we  found  the  King 
and  Queen  of  that  country  elevated  in  two  armchairs  on  a 
kitchen  table  holding  a  court.  The  whole  of  the  Danish 
nobility  were  in  attendance;  consisting  of  a  noble  boy  in 
the  wash-leather  boots  of  a  gigantic  ancestor,  a  venerable 
Peer  with  a  dirty  face,  who  seemed  to  have  risen  from  the 
people  late  in  life,  and  the  Danish  chivalry  with  a  comb  in 
its  hair  and  a  pair  of  white  silk  legs,  and  presenting  on  the 
whole  a  feminine  appearance.  My  gifted  townsman  stood 
gloomily  apart  and  I  could  have  wished  that  his  curls  and 
forehead  had  been  more  probable. 

And  there  is  something  quite  painfully  reminiscent 
about  that  after-theatre  supper  when  Pip  and  Herbert 
took  the  aforesaid  fellow-townsman  out  for  cakes  and 
ale,  and,  until  2  in  the  morning,  listened  (for  lack  of  a 
chance  to  get  a  word  in  edgewise)  to  an  account  of  the 
Waldengarver  success  and  a  development  of  the  Walden- 
garver  plans. 

I  forget  in  detail  what  they  were  [Pip  said  afterward], 
but  I  have  a  general  recollection  that  he  was  to  begin  by 
reviving  the  Drama  and  to  end  with  crushing  it;  inasmuch 
as  his  decease  would  leave  it  utterly  bereft  and  without  a 
chance  or  hope. 

Reminiscent,  too,  of  something  within  the  experience 
of  all  of  us  is  David's  jarring  drop  to  the  gray,  gritty 
hubbub  of  the  streets,  a  descent  which  is  part  of  the 


8         Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

aftermath  of  every  true  adventure  at  the  play.  And 
Dickens's  own  memories  of  the  theatre  in  Dullborough 
Town,  where  he  went  as  a  small  boy  and  where  he 
learned  as  from  a  page  of  English  history  how  the  wicked 
King  Richard  slept  in  wartime  on  a  sofa  much  too  small  for 
him  and  how  fearfully  his  conscience  troubled  his  boots. 

Above  all,  the  theatre  of  today  can  hardly  disown  the 
play  ordered  by  Mr.  Crummies  to  be  written  around 
the  new  pump  and  washtubs  he  had  just  acquired  for 
his  company. 

Nor  Nicholas's  wonderment  as  to  how  he  could 
introduce  a  pas  de  deux  for  Folair  and  the  Phenomenon 
in  the  scene  where  Folair  as  the  attached  servant  is 
turned  out  of  doors  with  the  wife  and  child,  goes  with 
them  into  poor  lodgings  and  refuses  to  take  any  wages. 
The  neophyte  adaptor  could  not  for  the  life  of  him  see 
how  a  dance  could  be  managed. 

"  Why,  isn't  it  obvious?  "  reasoned  Mr.  Lenville.  "  Gad- 
zooks,  who  can  help  seeing  the  way  to  do  it.? — you  astonish 
me!  You  get  the  distressed  lady,  and  the  little  child,  and 
the  attached  servant,  into  the  poor  lodgings,  don't  you? — 
Well,  look  here.  The  distressed  lady  sinks  into  a  chair,  and 
buries  her  face  in  her  pocket-handkerchief — '  What  makes 
you  weep,  mama? '  says  the  child.  '  Don't  weep,  mama,  or 
you'll  make  me  weep  too ! ' — '  And  me !'  says  the  faithful 
servant,  rubbing  his  eyes  with  his  arm.  '  What  can  we  do 
to  raise  your  spirits,  dear  mama?'  says  the  little  child. 
'Aye,  what  can  we  do?'  says  the  faithful  servant.  'Oh, 
Pierre!'  says  the  distressed  lady;  '  would  that  I  could  shake 
off  these  painful  thoughts!' — 'Try,  ma'am,  try,'  says  the 


The  Immortals  9 

faithful  servant;  'rouse  yourself,  ma'am;  be  umused.' — 'I 
will,'  says  the  lady,  '  I  will  learn  to  suffer  with  fortitude. 
Do  you  remember  that  dance,  my  honest  friend,  which,  in 
happier  days  you  practiced  with  this  sweet  angel?  It  never 
failed  to  calm  my  spirits  then.  Oh !  let  me  see  it  once  again 
before  I  die ! ' — There  it  is — cue  for  the  band,  before  I  die, — 
and  off  they  go.  That's  the  regular  thing;  isn't  it. 
Tommy?" 

"  That's  it,"  replied  Mr.  Folair.  "  The  distressed  lady, 
overpowered  by  old  recollections,  faints  at  the  end  of  the 
dance,  and  you  close  in  with  a  picture." 

How  that  little  ninety-year-old  twinge  of  dramatic 
criticism  does  keep  bobbing  up  in  the  present-day  ob- 
servations! As  when  Mr.  Zangwill,  contemplating  a 
comedy  about  a  serio-comic  governess,  designed  a 
heroine  with  a  tendency  to  stop  short  (right  in  the 
dining  room  or  on  the  street  or  anywhere)  and  give 
imitations.  You  see,  he  had  written  the  piece  in  the 
hope  that  Cissie  Loftus  would  play  the  leading  role. 
Or,  when  Ethel  Watts  Mumford  wrote  a  comedy  about 
a  little  exile  returning  to  America  from  a  Continental 
school,  where,  among  other  accomplishments,  she  had 
developed  some  skill  at  toe  dancing.  Back  home  in  a 
great,  austere  mansion  on  Long  Island,  whenever  she 
felt  blue,  an  orchestra  would  pipe  up  providentially  in 
the  next  room  and  she  (shod,  as  it  happened,  in  ballet 
shoes)  would  cheer  herself  up  by  a  good,  heart-warming 
pas  seul.  That  was  in  a  play  called  "Just  Herself," 
written,  or  at  least  rewritten,  for  Lydia  Lopokova. 


lo       Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

And  then  there  is  that  story  they  tell  of  the  English 
comedy,  wherein  the  distressed  heroine,  having  fled  for 
some  reason  to  Buenos  Aires  and  been  pursued  there  by 
a  lecherous  and  importunate  bandit,  finally  called  out: 
"Nay,  sir,  I  cannot  yield  to  your  desires,  but  instead  I 
will  try  to  give  you  my  impression  of  Miss  Edna  May  in 
*The  Belle  of  New  York.'" 

And  then  there  are  the  Curdles,  who  are  with  us  yet. 

"It's  not  as  if  the  theatre  was  in  its  high  and  palmy 
days,"  said  Mrs.  Curdle  a  century  ago.  "The  drama 
is  gone,  perfectly  gone." 

"As  an  exquisite  embodiment  of  the  poet's  vision," 
said  Mr.  Curdle,  "and  a  realization  of  human  intellect- 
uality, guilding  with  refulgent  light  our  dreamy 
moments,  and  laying  open  a  new  and  magic  world  before 
the  mental  eye,  the  drama  is  gone,  perfectly  gone." 

Who  will  deny  that  Mr.  Curdle  is  writing  dramatic 
criticism  here  or  in  England  today  and  that  Mrs.  Curdle 
is  a  member  of  the  Drama  League?  But,  there,  that 
shelf  of  Dickens  bristles  with  texts  for  every  writer  on 
the  theatre.  Poke  your  nose  into  any  one  of  half  a 
dozen  volumes  and  find  again  how  essentially  change- 
less the  theatre  is.  Read  Mr.  Dickens  and  rediscover, 
if  you  will,  its  Peter  Pantheism.    And  your  own. 

In  the  pages  that  follow,  then,  are  assembled  for  your 
convenience  most  of  what  he  wrote  about  the  theatre 
in  his  books  and  much  of  what  he  wrote  in  his  letters — 
together  with  some  stray  clippings  from  fugitive  papers 


The  Immortals  n 

and  a  sample  of  his  playwriting  for  your  amusement. 
Also  an  account  of  the  plays  which,  to  his  great  pain, 
they  made  from  his  novels  and  some  study  of  the  sup- 
pressed actor  in  him  which  kept  cropping  out  to  upset 
his  orderly  life  and  distress  his  orderly  friends.  It  is  the 
theatre  of  his  day  and  ours,  recorded  from  the  stalls, 
from  the  pit,  from  the  wings  and  from  what  he  himself 
once  called  "the  yellow  eye  of  an  actor."  Implicit  in 
that  record  is  some  of  the  best  dramatic  criticism  in  the 
language. 


THE  THWARTED  ACTOR 

pHARLES  DICKENS  was  the  most  successful  and 
immeasurably  the  most  far-reaching  writer  born 
of  modern  England.  From  his  own  country  in  his  own 
day  and  from  readers  in  scattered  lands  the  world 
around  came  an  instant  and  heart-warming  response 
to  his  genius  which  has  been  matched  in  the  experience 
of  no  other  writer.  That  response  was  not  only  imme- 
diate but  personal  and  affectionate  to  a  degree  that  only 
Kipling  has  since  approached  and  then  only  under 
special  circumstances  and  for  but  a  little  while.  It  was 
an  interested  affection  that  swirled  and  billowed  around 
Dickens  all  his  days  on  earth  and  filled  those  days 
with  a  sort  of  festive  hubbub  that  was  most  dear  to 
him. 

And  yet  he  was  never  quite  happy  in  his  work.  He 
was  the  most  fecund  and  rewarded  of  novelists,  but  it 
did  not  content  him  to  be  a  novelist.  There  was  that 
in  him  which  could  not  be  satisfied  by  a  writer's  career 
at  all.  It  is  impossible  to  explore  far  in  the  half- 
shrouded  byways  of  Dickens  without  surprising  again 
and  again  this  secret  of  his  heart — that  he  wanted  to  be 

12 


A''i 


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Charles  Dickens  (1839) 
(Outline  of  the  Painting  by  Maclise) 


The  Thwarted  Actor  13 

an  actor.  Of  course  he  himself  used  to  speak  lightly 
and  a  little  sheepishly  of  his  youthful  aspirations  for  the 
stage,  as  of  something  boyish  and  amusing  enough  when 
viewed  in  kindly  retrospect.  Yet  these  aspirations,  or 
rather  the  sources  of  them,  never  really  left  him  and 
that  they  were  fermenting  away  inside  him  always  is 
readable  between  the  lines  even  of  that  eminently  dis- 
creet but  only  half -comprehending  man  Friday  of  his — 
John  Forster. 

It  would  have  been  idle  to  expostulate  with  him  that 
he  could  and  did  reach  a  far  wider  audience  than  any 
actor  might  aspire  to.  It  would  have  been  idle  to  point 
out  how  all  over  England  and  America  and  Australia, 
readers  of  his,  great  folk  and  mean  folk,  queens  and 
miners  and  scrubwomen  and  doctors  of  philosophy, 
were  laughing  and  weeping  at  the  promptings  of  his 
written  word.  He  knew  that  well  enough.  He  knew 
it.  But  he  did  not  feel  it.  He  did  not  hear  them 
laugh,  did  not  see  them  cry.  All  the  genius  poured  into 
"Copperfield"  or  the  tale  of  Tiny  Tim  could  not  bring 
him  the  warm,  human  satisfaction  of  visible  and  audible 
appreciation  which  was  his  friend  Macready's  nightly 
portion,  that  really  precious  reward  which  only  in  their 
more  toplofty  moments  do  the  actors  affect  to  disprize 
as  when  the  late  Lawrence  Barrett,  sighing  with  the 
extra  profundity  of  a  bogus  melancholy,  would  murmur: 
*'What  are  we  poor  players  but  sculptors  whose  lot  it  is 
night  after  night  to  carve  statues  in  snow. " 


14       Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

Had  Dickens  lived  in  the  twentieth  century,  the 
Freudians,  taking  one  shrewd,  amused,  infuriatingly 
perspicacious  look  at  him,  would  have  analyzed  him  on 
the  spot.  They  would  have  noted  his  clumsy  efforts  at 
playwriting,  his  adoration  of  Macready,  his  wistful 
loiterings  at  the  stage-door,  of  which  the  faint,  unmis- 
takable aroma  was  ever  the  breath  of  his  nostrils,  and 
his  disarming  readiness  to  laugh  and  cry  at  the  most 
ordinary  of  performances  in  any  theatre.  They  would 
have  noted  his  pantomimic  gyrations  when  in  the 
throes  of  composition.  They  would  have  known  that 
the  young  novelist  who  walked  the  night-mantled 
streets  of  Paris  in  an  agony  of  sympathy  for  the  dying 
Paul  Dombey  was  a  sidetracked  actor.  They  would 
have  noted  his  own  incongruous  capacity  for  self-pity, 
his  grotesque  sensitiveness  to  the  most  piddling  of 
criticism,  his  comically  transparent  excuses  for  appear- 
ing in  amateur  dramatics,  his  gallant  and  undeniably 
Thespian  appearance  and  his  flamboyant  raiment, 
geranium  in  the  buttonhole,  brilliantine  on  the  hair, 
rings  on  the  fingers  and  all,  which  distressed  his  sedate 
friends  but  satisfied  something  within  him.  They 
would  have  noted  all  these  things  and  published  in  some 
obscure  journal  an  article  written  to  demonstrate  that 
Mr.  Dickens  was  suffering  from  an  exhibition  complex. 
This  would  have  maddened  him.  He  would  have 
dictated  sixteen  furious  letters  demanding  retraction, 
growing  the  redder  in  the  face  as  he  paced  the  floor 


The  Thwarted  Actor  15 

because  he  would  have  known  that  it  was  all  quite  true. 
That  half-smothered  desire  gnawed  at  him  through  all 
the  years  of  his  growth  until  at  last  it  found  an  outlet 
which  brought  him  peace. 

Charles  Dickens's  dealings  with  the  established  pro- 
fessional theatre  were  irregular,  apprehensive  and 
finally  vanquishing,  except,  of  course,  that  he  went 
a-playgoing  in  whatever  town  he  visited,  whether  or 
not  he  knew  the  language  and  whether  or  not  the  bills 
held  forth  the  slightest  promise  of  something  worth  a 
whole  evening  of  a  lucid  adult's  leisure.  Even  in  the 
days  when  he  was  working  at  that  blacking-factory,  and 
earning  six  shillings  a  week,  you  would  have  seen  him  in 
his  white  hat,  little  jacket  and  corduroy  trousers,  march- 
ing up  to  the  ticket  booth  of  some  show-van  that  lay 
temptingly  across  his  homeward  path  and  boldly 
planking  down  some  considerable  fraction  of  his  income 
for  an  hour  of  contraband  entertainment. 

Earlier  even  than  that  began  the  itch  to  write  for  the 
stage,  for  the  first  works  of  his  pen  were  tragedies 
written  for  performance  at  home  in  a  nursery  packed 
to  the  doors  with  children  dragged  in  from  the  neighbor- 
hood to  listen  to  him.  "  Misnar,  or  the  Sultan  of  India," 
now  unhappily  lost  to  posterity,  was  one  of  these.  It 
was  an  itch  that  troubled  him  off  and  on  for  many 
years,  finding  expression  in  several  comedies  and  bur- 
lettas,  some  of  which  were  produced  with  moderate 
success  in  the  days  before  his  name  had  a  little  magic 


1 6       Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

for  the  summoning  of  an  audience.  Specifically,  these 
were  a  two-act  burletta  called  "The  Strange  Gentle- 
man"; a  comic  opera  libretto  called  "The  Village 
Coquettes";  a  one-act  burletta  entitled  "Is  She  His 
Wife?  Or,  Something  Singular";  a  short  farce,  "The 
Lamplighter";  another  (written  with  Mark  Lemon) 
called  "Mr.  Nightingale's  Diary"  and  a  five-act  drama- 
tization of  "No  Thoroughfare"  which  he  and  Wilkie 
Collins  managed  between  them.  Today  none  of  them 
has  any  existence  in  the  theatre  and  none  of  them  has 
any  interest  for  the  Dickensian,  except  as  a  curiosity. 
It  should  be  remembered,  however,  that  they  were 
written  in  what  were  the  dark  days  of  the  English 
theatre,  despite  all  the  glamor  lent  to  those  days  by 
the  backward  glances  of  George  Henry  Lewes  when,  in 
the  fifties,  he  was,  like  most  dramatic  critics  before  his 
time  and  after,  earnestly  engaged  in  lamenting  the 
decline  of  the  drama.  In  that  period,  Dickens  wrote 
several  plays  that  are  now  dead.  But  then  no  other 
Englishman  in  that  period  wrote  a  play  which  is  now 
alive. 

That  he  never  succeeded  in  writing  a  play  which 
could  serve  his  beloved  Macready  was  a  genuine  and 
unassuaged  disappointment  to  him.  His  reverence  for 
that  towering  figure  of  the  English  stage  was  a  thing 
which  time  and  his  own  surpassing  success  never 
tarnished.  To  Macready  he  dedicated  "Nicholas 
Nickleby."    And  for  Macready 's  eyes  he  poured  out 


St.tf  ames's  'M^^SK^Theaf  re. 


HEr  .  H  ARLE  V, 

STAG  E-.^,1  NAG  ER,  ' 

BIS  BENEFIT 

This  Evening,  MONDAY^  march  13th,  1837, 

OBvhuh  occaaiun  »ill  tie  pt'rloriufMt^ 


■J...  \<..  w  .•  ,u  u.tBOZ. 


\%  SHE  im  WIFE  ? 

Or,  SOniETHING  SINGULAR ! 

Alfred  l.j.oiu.i.  I -i.     Mr  KDIO..- 1  IK.  M.  Prior  Uinl>tir>,    MrGAKON^B. 

„  ,        t       ,  I-  I  f.tmrH„    .f  tKt    /»</  .    //.....    I.i.^r..!,-,!!   Ulrml,  )    ,,      u    4   u  i     c  v 

P.l„    l.pk.....    1-^.1     ,  „,  j    ,„.,   ^j.  «..„^  /  ,,_^^,  _,„  /<,.,rf„,,,     '5    Mr    H  A  H  L  E  Y. 

Mr.  I  ..vn,  -ii,    \l  .-    *1  I   l-i  iX.  \l,.  I-   i^r  I  ,„,l,.„.,    Mmt-trnt  ml  A. 

Mr  HARIiEY 

hr.  PlMwiCK 

Make  hia  First  Visit 

TO  THE  ST-  JAmES'S  THEATRE. 


At^i  r^lrttp,   ill  ^  ■*(*■. i(h  Air.    In 

EXPERIENCES 


"  A  ^VIThite  Bait  Dinner  at  Blackwall. " 

MOITED  eXPfhsLY    FORHUI    KY    HIS    alOBSifRE* 

"  Boz  r 

It*  aKbie  tocvi.Liudi-  »iii..(i»r>nKui<riif>iiFiiu>  ii  <<  &6tb&LasiHlght  thiiS«jifoa 

^^    THE.STRAWGEi 

OeittlemaM. 

M'.0*(i>ir.«f>   i.(  ''..   r  !./'«>  xdN  /.••-.%  'Ari7«>'-<  la&'rrcM  ^  ■<'/>ii>  li'  "ii  7««'t  <  1*»*  jMrtluLLI  NC»  W  UUTM 
J...  n  J  .....»<.         (,■/. I. ... J  ^r  i»<  31. /"•■••  .<'-••)         «t   SlUNtY. 

Tf.*  ^i'.r.tr  fi.-.    If* iJ^at.irr^rtdall^rtl.Ja-mtHArmti »t  -    tUKIEV 

Ci  .rl*.   t.>..kint  .      (  /..'fl'.iir'.'K   r*r -^r    /«•*-(••  ,<■-<«<) Itr    FUfttSIl:H. 

r^  9i».bi  .     .i..o..ii,,j     ».-,i.,-.i  i«.  Ji  v««... -»'»•) «!•.  c.'.hjwm, 

1«w     .      S  »..   i<r.  j>  |«.  jl    ysaila^r^i  7...    Ui    MtV 

W    1.  .    \  .  (..     •*•  riiUL»ov 

)<-!.0.|,bJ  r  ^.v,  ilk.-     nr  o    //-4#^l«4  d[  (^'   -^f'  J«"*l'«    «'«>)  UilkS*  dALi 

ttnnj    A   I..10  .     ,r    H-i/*    •«     t  pf  o  .i»lfltii»<  fit  /^'    .3i  Jai%49  •    4  rw«  )    ....     ..   J|  <•  SVl  :■■- 

M.rr   *  li~r  H,-  >..tir   ,,   U  1.  I.g       I..«t,J..f  fl-   «r    /i«.r..   <-••.;..  .         .......  J  I, '  1 1     -iH  !» 

»I  .    v...k..  !>■.  (..,(,  .1/ .-;»..»./.»•..  .1'».>      !l..rgN»ON 

C.  •■...-.  ;. .,*.«.    J,-..    I    «.»     U...     ITIHIT 

In. ;     -1  !,;  ,»  u  1       ;.  •  ..    Mi-J -iilll  Hai.il  M.-.    l>:\  \  i    --HIIH 


IICKllI-.    II  i\.,<      ..i    I'tlV.II-     H>   \i  S    .„.»    I,:-    ut.Uii»-J   ..t  M.  H\I«tA.V.  !<.  I'p|«» 
<.    v»,   S  f    '.    H-  tf  r  I  ^.[.Mr.-;  .ii.J  ..f  Mr  VV    VV\RNt",  «1  iIk-  [toiliSML-,  •!    ito   1  hr-irf , 

(i    ni  !■         I.  .,.->•.■   .1.  .1  ■.  >  _  

JSoxvs  ^H.--St'(in,(l  f*>it.  i\s"  Pii  :is.-Ser(ynd  Prici''^ii. 
GiilLi  y  l.s,  iid- -Second  f^sica  hi. 


Dickens  as  Playwright 
(From  the  Shaw  Collection) 


The  Thwarted  Actor  17 

letters  a  little  warmer  in  their  aflFection  than  any  others 
which  his  hospitable  heart  dictated.  I  suspect  that  this 
chafed  Forster  just  a  little  and  that  he  was  more  than  a 
little  exasperated  by  his  knowledge  that  his  hero's 
thoughts  followed  Macready  around  the  world  because 
Macready  represented  an  achievement  that  Dickens 
half-consciously  envied. 

That  Dickens  was  a  natural-born  leading  man,  no 
one  could  doubt  who  has  studied  the  portraits  of  him, 
especially  the  winning  Maclise  study  which  caught  him 
in  the  beauty  and  but  half-conquered  diffidence  of  his 
youth,  the  portrait  which  Thackeray  found  so  amazing 
a  likeness,  "the  real  identical  man  Dickens,  the  inward 
as  well  as  the  outward  of  him."  There,  visible  enough, 
were  genteel  comedy  in  the  walk  and  manner,  juvenile 
tragedy  in  the  eye  and  touch-and-go  farce  in  the  laugh. 

And  that  Dickens  had  made  one  direct  bid  for  a  place 
in  the  ranks  at  Covent  Garden  is  a  matter  of  record. 
Years  afterwards,  he  harked  back  for  Forster 's  benefit 
to  that  attempt : 

I  wrote  to  Bartley,  who  was  stage-manager,  and  told 
him  how  young  I  was,  and  exactly  what  I  thought  I  could 
do;  and  that  I  believed  I  had  a  strong  perception  of  char- 
acter and  oddity,  and  a  natural  power  of  reproducing  in  my 
own  person  what  I  observed  in  others.  This  was  at  the  time 
when  I  was  at  Doctors'-commons  as  a  shorthand  writer  for 
the  proctors.  And  I  recollect  I  wrote  the  letter  from  a  little 
oflBce  I  had  there,  where  the  answer  came  also.  There  must 
have  been  something  in  my  letter  that  struck  the  authorities, 


i8       Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

for  Bartley  wrote  me  almost  immediately  to  say  they  were 
busy  getting  up  the  Hunchback  (so  they  were)  but  that  they 
would  communicate  with  me  again,  in  a  fortnight.  Punc- 
tual to  the  time  another  letter  came,  with  an  appointment 
to  do  anything  of  Mathew's  I  pleased  before  him  and 
Charles  Kemble,  on  a  certain  day  at  the  theatre.  My  sister 
Fanny  was  in  the  secret,  and  was  to  go  with  me  to  play  the 
songs.  I  was  laid  up  when  the  day  came,  with  a  terrible 
bad  cold  and  an  inflammation  of  the  face;  the  beginning,  by 
the  bye,  of  that  annoyance  in  one  ear  to  which  I  am  subject 
to  this  day.  I  wrote  to  say  so  and  added  that  I  would  re- 
sume my  application  next  season.  I  made  a  great  splash  in 
the  gallery  soon  afterwards;  the  Chronicle  opened  to  me;  I 
had  a  distinction  in  the  little  world  of  the  newspaper, 
which  made  one  like  it;  began  to  write;  didn't  want  money; 
had  never  thought  of  the  stage  but  as  a  means  of  getting  it; 
gradually  left  off  turning  my  thoughts  that  way,  and  never 
resumed  the  idea.  I  never  told  you  this,  did  I?  See  how 
near  I  may  have  been  to  another  sort  of  life. 

Years  later,  when  he  was  reading  an  ignominiously 
rejected  farce  by  Bartley,  he  thought  he  detected  some 
struggling  recognition  and  connection  stirring  up  within 
the  subconsciousness  of  that  manager.  "But,'*  he 
added  cheerfully,  *'it  may  have  been  only  his  doubts  of 
that  humorous  composition." 

When  in  the  letter  just  quoted,  Dickens  said  that  he 
had  never  thought  of  the  stage  except  as  a  means  of 
getting  money,  he  was  saying  what,  by  every  evidence 
furnished  in  the  acts  and  works  of  his  life,  we  know  was 
flagrantly  untrue.  And  furthermore  who  cannot  see 
that  he  was  saying  it  because  it  was  not  true.f*   And 


The  Thwarted  Actor  19 

knowing  all  he  did  know  of  Dickens's  theatrical  impulses, 
the  bland  Forster  still  had  the  hardihood  to  say  that 
Dickens,  in  his  rebellion  against  the  labor  and  penury 
which  were  the  lot  of  a  law  court-reporter,  had  at- 
tempted to  escape  that  drudgery  "even"  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  stage.  That  word  "even"  crept  into  that 
sentence,  from  the  same  deprecatory  impulse  which 
later  bade  Forster  describe  Dickens's  outbursts  of 
amateur  dramatics  as  "Splendid  Stroking." 

It  wasn't  a  very  good  living  [Dickens  himself  observed  of 
the  reportorial  work]  (though  not  a  very  bad  one)  and  was 
wearily  uncertain;  which  made  me  think  of  the  Theatre  in 
quite  a  business-like  way.  I  went  to  some  theatre  every 
night,  with  very  few  exceptions,  for  at  least  three  years; 
really  studying  the  bills  first,  and  going  to  where  there  was 
the  best  acting;  and  always  to  see  Mathews  whenever  he 
played.  I  practised  immensely  (even  such  things  as  walking 
in  and  out,  and  sitting  down  in  a  chair) :  often  four,  five,  six 
heurs  a  day;  shut  up  in  my  own  room  or  walking  about  in 
th«  fields.  I  prescribed  to  myself,  too,  a  sort  of  Hamilton- 
ian  system  for  learning  parts;  and  learnt  a  great  number.  I 
haven't  even  lost  the  habit  now,  for  I  knew  my  Canadian 
ps.rts  Immediately,  though  they  were  new  to  me.  I  must 
have  done  a  great  deal :  for,  just  as  Macready  found  me  out, 
they  used  to  challenge  me  at  Braham's;  and  Yates,  who  was 
knowing  enough  in  those  things,  wasn't  to  be  parried  at  all. 

All  of  which  is  quoted  at  length,  less  for  the  specific 
information  it  adds,  than  to  ask  if  it  does  not  suggest 
something  untold,  some  color  for  the  legend  that,  at  an 
unchronicled  time  and  place,  Dickens  did  vanish  into 


20       Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

the  personnel  of  a  stock  company  and  try  his  luck  as  an 
actor.  Of  course  that  legend  took  on  the  accent  of 
certainty  in  the  minds  of  those  players  at  Portsmouth 
who,  after  "Nicholas  Nickleby,"  suspected  that  the 
world  was  laughing  at  them  and  who  would  have  it 
that  this  Dickens  came  down  there  as  a  would-be-actor 
and  made  a  sorry  mess  of  it.  There  is,  of  course,  the 
specific  tradition  that  he  went  on  unannounced  one 
night  during  the  run  of  his  own  piece,  *'The  Strange 
Gentleman." 

But  it  was  rather  as  an  amateur  that  these  instincts 
of  his  found  their  earlier  outlet.  He  never  missed  a 
chance  at  such  indulgence,  organizing  special  companies, 
pretending  to  be  a  little  bored  by  them  and  ending 
always  by  directing  them  himself  and  attending  fever- 
ishly to  the  smallest  detail  of  back-stage  management. 
It  was  a  part  of  him  to  plunge  with  passionate  earnest- 
ness into  these  exhausting  enterprises,  glowering  at  the 
more  trivial  associates  who  could  not,  by  mere  per- 
suasion, be  led  into  taking  seriously  the  exactions  of 
rehearsal  and  the  true  agony  of  performance. 

Note  the  fine  and  familiar  mixture  of  relish  and  ex- 
asperation in  this  mid-rehearsal  scrawl  to  the  amused 
Macready.  "I  never  in  my  life  saw  a  place  in  such  a 
state  or  had  to  do  with  such  an  utterly  careless  and 
unbusiness-Iike  set  of  dogs  as  my  fellow-actors."  He 
excepted  two,  but  not  Forster,  who  was  engrossed  in  the 
role  of  Kitely.    "So  far  as  he  is  concerned,"  Dickens 


r 


3n  lirmrmbrancr  ov  riii:  lai'k  mr.  douglas  jerroi.d. 


>{ 


COMMIITKES  "H'Ri;,  OAl.LEHY  OF  ILLUSTHATl'JN. 
KEOKST  STKKET.  * 

^  -       ...  * 


^A-.-^     Sl^a^C. 


/  X 


-^^■-^       J..       -^-^  <c^  /^y^^/i^    cc^U^^i^^ 


/ 


Dickens  as  Stage-Manager 

(From  the  Manuscript  in  the  Widener  Library,  Harvard  College) 


The  Thwarted  Actor  21 

added  sourly,  "there  is  nothing  in  the  world  but  Kitely 
— there  is  no  world  at  all;  only  a  something  in  its  place 
that  begins  with  a  K  and  ends  with  a  Y" — a  minor  note 
which  does  not,  by  the  way,  find  place  in  Forster's 
biography,  nor  did  Mamie  Dickens  and  Georgina 
Hogarth  think  it  nice  to  print  it  in  their  collection  of 
their  father's  letters. 

It  was  Dickens  who  would  draw  up  the  rules  against 
talking  in  the  wings,  Dickens  who  blasted  the  negligent 
in  memorizing,  Dickens  who  wrote  out  with  his  own 
hand  the  calls  and  music  cues  and  property  lists.  Stray 
leaves  from  this  old  book  of  his  life  are  treasured  now 
in  the  manuscript  collections  of  the  world. 

To  embark  from  time  to  time  on  such  undertakings, 
he  had,  of  course,  to  down  the  questionings  in  his  own 
mind,  the  fretting  of  his  anxious  publishers  and  the 
disconcerting  suspicions  of  his  friends,  who  knew  well 
enough  what  old  impulses  he  was  obeying.  Above  all, 
he  had  to  trump  up  some  excuse  for  publication.  For 
it  is  not  given  to  the  Anglo-Saxon  to  be  able  to  say 
frankly :  "  It  is  my  desire  to  get  up  on  a  lighted  platform 
and  make  an  exhibition  of  myself,  but  I  cannot  do  it  in 
a  vacuum.  I  need  someone  to  watch  me.  Please  come 
and  watch  me."  I  remember  how,  in  my  Sophomore 
days  at  Hamilton  College,  we  organized  a  dramatic 
club,  engaged  a  theatre  and  then  were  assailed  with 
misgivings  which  overhung  us  like  a  depressing  cloud 
until  we  hit  upon  the  happy  notion  of  giving  our  per- 


22       Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

formance  for  the  benefit  of  some  local  work,  it  mattered 
not  what.  There  we  were,  quite  unconsciously  invent- 
ing out  of  our  own  needs,  an  old  thing — a  familiar  thing 
to  Dickens,  certainly,  who,  for  his  adventures  on  the 
boards,  always  managed  to  contrive  some  plausible 
cause  outside  the  desires  of  his  own  heart.  Even  when 
he  worked  up  a  monster  benefit  for  poor  Leigh  Hunt  and 
was  bereft  of  his  cause  by  an  unexpected  eleventh-hour 
pension  for  that  gratified  beneficiary,  he  was  only 
momentarily  baflfled. 

How  good  an  actor  he  was,  it  is  diflBcult  to  tell  from 
the  written  criticism.  ''Assumption,"  he  wrote,  *'has 
charms  for  me  so  delightful — I  hardly  know  for  how 
many  wild  reasons — that  I  feel  a  loss  of,  Oh,  I  can't  say 
what  exquisite  foolery,  when  I  lose  a  chance  of  being 
someone  not  in  the  remotest  degree  like  myself."  (It 
is,  perhaps,  worth  noting  that  he  invariably  used  the 
word  "assumption"  to  cover  all  activity  of  disguise  or 
impersonation.  This  parenthesis  is  a  cross-reference  to 
the  phrase,  "the  Datchery  assumption"  in  his  own  com- 
ment on  "Edwin  Drood"  and  is  tucked  in  here  for  the 
benefit  of  the  Edwin  Druids.)  Leigh  Hunt  wrote  that 
Dickens's  Bobadil  (in  Jonson's  "Every  Man  in  His 
Humor")  had  "  a  spirit  in  it  of  intelligent  apprehension 
beyond  anything  the  existing  stage  has  known."  But 
Hunt's  partiality  might  well  have  been  challenged. 
And  Victoria,  who  worked  up  a  considerable  trepidation 
over  his  performance  of  Wardour  in  Wilkie  Collins 's 


<7ZC. 


I  4'  '^*-6.  ^ .  .  J 

Relic  of  Dickens,  the  Stage-Manager 
(From  the  Widener  Library,  Harvard  College) 


The  Thwarted  Actor  23 

"The  Frozen  Deep,"  declared  that  no  professional  ac- 
tor then  living  could  have  matched  him.  But  somehow 
one  distrusts  Her  Majesty's  aesthetic  judgments.  How- 
ever, it  is  not  a  bad  guess  that  Dickens  was  an  excellent 
actor,  eloquent,  picturesque,  moving.  And  it  is  my 
own  that  had  not  chance  otherwise  canalized  his  great 
genius,  he  would  have  been  the  overtowering  actor  of 
Nineteenth  Century  England.  Which  would  have  been 
a  pity. 

But  the  final  and  only  satisfying  outlet  for  all  these 
impulses  was  found  by  another  means.  That  means 
was  foreshadowed  in  his  early  craving  to  read  his  manu- 
scripts aloud.  He  took  a  genuine  enough  interest,  in  all 
conscience,  in  the  sales  of  his  stories  as  their  serial  parts 
appeared,  and  the  rise  and  fall  of  those  sales  was  a  sure 
barometer  to  his  spirits.  But  he  wrote  not  with  any 
such  vague  and  impersonal  audience  in  mind.  He  wrote 
for  the  friend  he  was  going  to  corner  and  read  his  piece 
to.  It  was,  let  us  say,  Macready's  laughter  or  Macready's 
tears  he  hoped  to  invoke.  Indeed,  all  of  this  aspect  of 
Charles  Dickens  lies  back  of  a  single  sentence  he  once 
wrote  as  a  postscript  to  a  letter  dispatched  from  Lon- 
don to  his  wife  at  the  time  when  the  **  Christmas  Carol " 
was  still  in  manuscript.  "If,"  he  said,  "you  had  seen 
Macready  last  night,  undisguisedly  sobbing  and  crying 
on  the  sofa  as  I  read,  you  would  have  felt,  as  I  did,  what 
a  thing  it  is  to  have  power." 

An  incident  that  attended  the  issue  of  "The  Chimes" 


24       Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

is  most  revealing.  In  the  midst  of  a  long,  self-imposed 
exile  on  the  Continent,  he  had  written  that  less-per- 
sistent of  his  Christmas  stories  and,  shipping  the  manu- 
script on  to  London,  was  trusting  to  Forster's  fidelity 
to  revise  the  proof. 

It  was  on  the  eve  of  publication — early  in  the  Winter 
of  1844-1845 — that  he  suddenly  announced  a  clandes- 
tine trip  to  London,  a  flying-trip,  that  was  to  be  im- 
parted only  to  his  cronies  and  which  was  to  last  only  a 
week.  Of  course  Forster  wrote  back  that  it  would  tire 
him  out,  that  it  would  cost  too  much,  that  it  could  not 
possibly  be  kept  secret,  etc.,  etc.  And,  of  course, 
Dickens  paid  no  attention. 

I  am  still  in  the  same  mind  about  coming  to  London 
[he  replied].  Not  because  the  proofs  concern  me  at  all 
(I  should  be  an  ass  as  well  as  a  thankless  vagabond  if  they 
did)  but  because  of  that  unspeakable  restless  something 
which  would  render  it  almost  as  impossible  for  me  to  re- 
main here  and  not  see  the  thing  complete,  as  it  would  be 
for  a  full  balloon,  left  to  itself,  not  to  go  up. 

And  later  in  the  same  letter  out  plumped  the  whole 
truth. 

Shall  I  confess  to  you,  I  particularly  want  Carlyle  above  all 
to  see  it  before  the  rest  of  the  world,  when  it  is  done;  and 
I  should  like  to  inflict  the  little  story  on  him  and  on  dear  old 
gallant  Macready  with  my  own  lips,  and  to  have  Stanny 
and  the  other  Mac  sitting  by.  Now,  if  you  was  a  real  gent, 
you'd  get  up  a  little  circle  for  me,  one  wet  evening,  when  I 
come  to  town:  and  would  say:  "My  boy  (Sir,  you  will  have 


The  Thwarted  Actor  25 

the  goodness  to  leave  those  books  alone  and  to  go  down- 
stairs— What  the  Devil  are  you  doing?  And  mind,  sir, 
I  can  see  nobody — Do  you  hear?  Nobody.  I  am  particu- 
larly engaged  with  a  young  gentleman  from  Asia) — My 
boy,  would  you  give  us  that  little  Christmas  book  (a  little 
Christmas  book  of  Dickens's,  Macready,  which  I'm  anxious 
you  should  hear);  and  don't  slur  it,  now,  or  be  too  fast, 
Dickens,  please." — I  say,  if  you  was  a  real  gent,  something 
to  this  efiFect  might  happen.  I  shall  be  under  sailing  orders 
the  moment  I  have  finished.  And  I  shall  produce  myself 
(please  God)  in  London  on  the  very  day  you  name.  For  one 
week :  to  the  hour. 

And  so  it  came  to  pass. 

From  that  reading  of  "The  Chimes"  came  many  things. 
The  transition  from  private  readings  to  public  readings 
given  for  charity,  and  thence  to  public  readings  given 
for  the  lining  of  his  own  bottomless  purse,  was  gradual 
but  inevitable.  Forster  saw  it  coming  and  in  a  sort  of 
panic  amassed  all  the  arguments  against  so  undignified 
a  procedure  and  so  wearing  an  undertaking.  He  was 
careful  that  Dickens  should  hear  of  the  distinguished 
ladies  who  labored  "under  the  impression  that  it  was 
to  lead  to  the  stage  ( !  0 ."  The  scandalized  italics  and  the 
exclamation  points  (both  of  them)  are  Forster's.  Fors- 
ter has  recorded  his  own  opposition  in  these  words: 

It  was  a  substitution  of  lower  for  higher  aims;  a  change  to 
commonplace  from  more  elevated  pursuits;  and  it  had  so 
much  of  the  character  of  a  public  exhibition  for  money  as 
to  raise,  in  the  question  of  respect  for  his  caUing  as  a  writer, 
a  question  also  of  respect  for  himself  as  a  gentleman. 


26       Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

But  do  you  quite  consider  that  the  public  exhibition  of 
oneself  takes  place  equally,  whosoever  may  get  the  money? 
[Dickens  replied].  And  have  you  any  idea  that  at  this 
moment — this  very  time — half  the  public  at  least  supposes 
me  to  be  paid?  My  dear  F.,  out  of  the  twenty  or  five-and- 
twenty  letters  a  week  that  I  get  about  Readings,  twenty 
will  ask  at  what  price,  or  on  what  terms,  it  can  be  done.  The 
only  exceptions,  in  truth,  are  when  the  correspondent  is  a 
clergyman,  or  a  banker,  or  the  member  for  the  place  in 
question. 

So  it  went  back  and  forth,  all  the  friends  deploring 
this  new  misconduct  of  his,  Dickens  himself  inwardly 
determined  to  go  through  with  it.  He  reared  a  hundred 
specious  excusete.  He  laid  his  intentions  to  make  an 
exhibition  of  himself  to  the  widest  miscellany  of  causes. 
To  the  melancholy  of  his  home  (from  which  his  dis- 
carded wife  had  just  moved  out  for  good  and  all),  to 
the  numerical  strength  of  his  children,  which  could 
hardly  be  denied.  He  would  sign  a  contract  for  each 
new  course  of  readings,  protesting  all  the  while  that  the 
work  was  torment  to  him,  that  he  longed  to  stay  by  his 
own  fireside,  that  nothing  but  need  of  money  could  in- 
duce him  to  go  and  so  forth  and  so  forth,  with  never  a 
single  mention  of  the  real  reason  which  skulked  always 
in  the  background,  and  is  visible  there  even  to  this  day. 
But  the  letters  he  wrote  home  from  his  journeys  shone 
with  a  new  content.  There  was  his  public  all  about  him, 
within  sight  of  his  own  eyes,  within  touch  of  his  own 
hands.    The  sense  of  them  crowding  the  halls  to  suf- 


The  Thwarted  Actor  2^ 

focation  and  hanging  breathless  on  his  performances 
warmed  his  heart  as  nothing  had  ever  warmed  it. 

When  the  boots  at  Morrison's  heard  that  his  Irish 
hall  was  packed,  he  cried,  "The  Lard  be  praised  for  the 
honor  o'  Dooblin."  When  a  woman  approached  him  in 
York,  it  would  be  to  say,  "Mr.  Dickens,  will  you  let  me 
touch  the  hand  that  has  filled  my  house  with  friends.''" 
How  he  loved  it !  He  might  write  in  advance  that  only 
the  hope  of  gain  that  would  make  him  "more  inde- 
pendent of  the  worst,"  could  make  him  face  the  travel 
and  exertion  and  absence — that  a  journej^  overseas 
would  be  "penance  and  misery."  But,  from  overseas, 
he  could  not  help  writing,  proudly,  defensively,  reveal- 
ingly: 

I  have  now  read  in  New  York  City  to  40,000  people  and 
am  quite  as  well  known  in  the  streets  there  as  I  am  in  Lon- 
don. People  will  turn  back,  turn  again  and  face  me,  and 
have  a  look  at  me,  or  will  say  to  one  another  "look  here, 
Dickens  coming."  But  no  one  ever  stops  me  or  addresses 
me.  Sitting  reading  in  the  carriage  outside  the  New  York 
post-office  while  one  of  the  staff  was  stamping  the  letters 
inside,  I  became  conscious  that  a  few  people  who  had  been 
looking  at  the  turn-out  had  discovered  me  within.  On 
my  peeping  out  good-humoredly,  one  of  them  (I  should  say 
a  merchant's  book-keeper)  stepped  up  to  the  door,  took  off 
his  hat,  and  said  in  a  frank  way:  "Mr.  Dickegs,  I  should 
very  much  like  to  have  the  honor  of  shaking  hands  with 
you"  and,  that  done,  presented  two  others.  Nothing  could 
be  more  quiet  or  less  intrusive.  In  the  railway  cars,  if  I 
see  anybody  who  clearly  wants  to  speak  to  me,  I  usually 


28       Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

anticipate  the  wish  by  speaking  myself.  If  I  am  standing  on 
the  brake  outside  (to  avoid  the  intolerable  stove)  people 
getting  down  will  say  with  a  smile:  "As  I  am  taking  my 
departure,  Mr.  Dickens,  and  can't  trouble  you  for  more  than 
a  moment,  I  should  like  to  take  you  by  the  hand,  sir."  And 
so  we  shake  hands  and  go  our  ways. 

The  interminable  lines  at  his  box-offices,  the  queue  that 
slept  all  night  on  the  street  in  Brooklyn,  for  instance, 
gave  him  a  joy  that  had  nothing  whatever  to  do  with 
the  dollars  they  were  waiting  to  deposit  to  his  account. 

The  career  that  really  began  with  the  reading  of  "The 
Chimes"  to  the  little  circle  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields, 
brought  him  in  huge  sums  of  money  and  reestablished 
his  friendship  with  America.  Doubtless,  it  measurably 
shortened  his  days  on  earth  but  it  satisfied  at  last  the 
thing  within  him  which  had  remained  unsatisfied  ever 
since  that  broken  appointment  between  the  debonair 
young  reporter  and  the  manager  of  Covent  Garden  long 
before. 

They  were  not  quite  like  anything  the  world  had  seen 
before  or  anything  the  world  has  seen  since — those 
readings,  which,  literally,  were  not  readings  at  all.  A 
little  like  some  courtyard  or  hearth-side  performances 
of  the  old  jongleurs,  perhaps,  and  more  than  a  little 
like  the  latter-day  appearances  of  Ruth  Draper,  who,  as 
Dickens  could,  can  by  virtue  of  her  own  vivid  self  and 
her  extraordinary  mimetic  gift,  crowd  an  empty, 
sceneless  stage  with  a  host  of  her  own  imagining.    But 


The  Thwarted  Actor  29 

about  them  the  half-admiring,  half-grudging  Carlyle 
shall  say  the  last  word  here,  Carlyle  who,  under  date 
of  April  29,  1863,  made  this  report: 

I  had  to  go  yesterday  to  Dickens's  Reading,  8  p.m., 
Hanover  Rooms,  to  the  complete  upsetting  of  my  evening 
habitudes  and  spiritual  composure.  Dickens  does  do  it 
capitally,  such  as  it  is;  acts  better  than  any  Macready  in  the 
world;  a  whole  tragic,  comic,  heroic  theatre  visible  perform- 
ing under  one  hat,  and  keeping  us  laughing — in  a  sorry  way 
some  of  us  thought — the  whole  night.  He  is  a  good  creature 
too,  and  makes  fifty  or  sixty  pounds  by  each  of  these 
readings. 


The  Stage  in  Dickens's  Letters 


31 


THE  STAGE  IN  DICKENS'S 
LETTERS 

npHE  letters  and  portions  of  letters  which  follow 
have  been  chosen  from  the  great  volume  of 
Dickens's  correspondence,  most  of  which  has,  at  one 
time  or  another,  been  published  or  partly  published. 
First,  in  this  arrangement  of  them,  come  selections  from 
his  letter's  to  Macready,  offered  here  not  merely  because 
they  are  abuzz  with  his  interest  in  the  theatre  but  be- 
cause they  reveal  again  and  again  the  object  of  his 
greatest  affection  among  the  men  whom  he  came  to 
know. 

It  has  been  necessary  to  go  back  of  the  familiar  re- 
cord in  the  official  family  edition  of  his  letters  and  in  the 
often  cryptic  pages  of  Forster's  biographj\  When 
Mamie  Dickens  and  Georgina  Hogarth  (his  eldest 
daughter  and  his  sister-in-law)  edited  their  great  man's 
abundant  correspondence,  there  were  many  passages 
and  often  whole  letters  which  were  omitted  out  of  dis- 
cretion, out  of  timidity,  or  out  of  consideration  for 
Dickens's  reputation  for  refined  and  amiable  speech. 
For  example,  in  a  familiar  letter  written  to  Macready 
on  November  1,  1854,  and  touching  on  a  civilian  phe- 

3  33 


34       Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

nomenon  of  the  Crimean  War  quite  recognizable  to 
anyone  who  was  ahve  in  the  years  from  1914  to  1918, 
you  will  read  this  delightful  paragraph: 

" is  getting  a  little  too  fat,  but  appears  to  be 

troubled  by  the  great  responsibility  of  directing  the  whole 
war.  He  doesn't  seem  to  be  quite  clear  that  he  has  got 
the  ships  into  the  exact  order  he  intended,  on  the  sea 
point  of  attack  at  Sebastopol."  But  it  is  when  you  go 
to  the  letter  itself  in  the  manuscript  vault  of  the  Mor- 
gan Library  in  New  York  that  you  find  why  the  name 
was  omitted.  It  was  omitted  because  the  name  was 
Forster. 

It  is  not  so  easy  to  see  why  the  woman  referred  to  in 
another  letter  as  "a  very  bad  actress"  should  have  been 
veiled  for  posterity.  It  was  Ristori.  Occasionally,  the 
consideration  shown  was  rather  for  Dickens  himself, 
as  where  they  changed  his  "bawdy"  to  "beastly"  and, 
in  the  same  letter — the  1841  Macready  letter  given  here 
— they  omitted  bodily  the  penultimate  paragraph. 
And  of  course  such  a  letter  as  the  one  given  here  under 
the  presumptive  date  of  1840  would  find  no  place  at  all 
among  the  oflScial  memorials.  The  omissions  are  sup- 
plied for  these  pages  from  the  originals  which  the  late 
Pierpont  Morgan  collected. 

The  other  letters  added  are  a  miscellany  of  informal 
dramatic  criticism  which  he  would  broadcast  after  any 
trip  to  the  threatre  at  home  or  abroad. 


I.    The  Macready  Letters 


35 


I.    THE  MACREADY  LETTERS 


THE  ASPIRING  PLAYWRIGHT 

Doughty  Street,  1838. 

I  have  not  seen  you  for  the  past  week,  because  I  hoped 
when  we  next  met  to  bring  "The  LampHghter"  in  my  hand. 
It  would  have  been  finished  by  this  time,  but  I  found  my- 
self compelled  to  set  to  work  first  at  the  "Nickleby,"  on 
which  I  am  at  present  engaged,  and  which  I  regret  to  say — 
after  my  close  and  arduous  application  last  month — I  find 
I  cannot  write  as  quickly  as  usual.  I  must  finish  it,  at 
latest,  by  the  24th  (a  doubtful  comfort!),  and  the  instant 
I  have  done  so  I  will  apply  myself  to  the  farce.  I  am  afraid 
to  name  any  particular  day,  but  I  pledge  myself  that  you 
shall  have  it  this  month,  and  you  may  calculate  on  that 
promise.  I  send  you  with  this  a  copy  of  a  farce  I  wrote  for 
Harley  when  he  left  Drury  Lane,  and  in  which  he  acted  for 
some  seventy  nights.  It  is  the  best  thing  he  does.  It  is 
barely  possible  you  may  like  to  try  it.  Any  local  or  tempo- 
rary allusions  could  be  easily  altered. 

Believe  me  that  I  only  feel  gratified  and  flattered  by  your 
inquiry  after  the  farce,  and  that  if  I  had  as  much  time  as  I 
have  inclination,  I  would  write  on  and  on  and  on,  farce  after 
farce  and  comedy  after  comedy,  until  I  wrote  you  something 
that  would  run.  You  do  me  justice  when  you  give  me  credit 
for  good  intentions;  but  the  extent  of  my  good-will  and 

37 


38       Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

strong  and  warm  interest  in  you  personally  and  your  great 
undertaking,  you  cannot  fathom  nor  express. 
Believe  me,  my  dear  Macready, 

Ever  faithfully  yours, 

Charles  Dickens. 
P.S.   For  Heaven's  sake  don't  fancy  that  I  hold  "The 
Strange  Gentleman"  in  any  estimation  or  have  a  wish  upon 
the  subject. 

THE  DISCOURAGED  PLAYWRIGHT 

48  Doughty  Street,  1838. 

I  can  have  but  one  opinion  on  the  subject — withdraw  the 
farce  at  once,  by  all  means. 

I  perfectly  concur  in  all  you  say,  and  thank  you  most 
heartily  and  cordially  for  your  kind  and  manly  conduct, 
which  is  only  what  I  should  have  expected  from  you; 
though,  under  such  circumstances,  I  sincerely  believe  there 
are  few  but  you — if  any — who  would  have  adopted  it. 

Believe  me  that  I  have  no  other  feeling  of  disappoint- 
ment connected  with  this  matter  but  that  arising  from  the 
not  having  been  able  to  be  of  some  use  to  you.  And  trust 
me  that  if  the  opportunity  should  ever  arrive,  my  ardour 
will  only  be  increased — not  damped — by  the  result  of  this 
experiment. 

A  DEDICATION 

Broadbtairs,  1839. 

Let  me  prefix  to  the  last  number  of  "  Nickleby,"  and  to  the 
book,  a  duplicate  of  the  leaf  which  I  now  send  you.  Believe 
me  that  there  will  be  no  leaf  in  the  volume  which  will  afford 
me  in  times  to  come  more  true  pleasure  and  gratification, 
than  that  in  which  I  have  written  your  name  as  foremost 
amongst  those  of  the  friends  whom  I  love  and  honour.  Believe 
me,  there  will  be  no  one  line  in  it  conveying  a  more  honest  truth 


The  Macready  Letters  39 

or  a  more  sincere  feeling  than  that  which  describes  its  dedi- 
cation to  you  as  a  slight  token  of  my  admiration  and  regard. 

So  let  me  tell  the  world  by  this  frail  record  that  I  was  a 
friend  of  yours,  and  interested  to  no  ordinary  extent  in  your 
proceedings  at  that  interesting  time  when  you  showed  them 
such  noble  truths  in  such  noble  forms,  and  gave  me  a  new 
interest  in,  and  associations  with,  the  labours  of  so  many 
months, 

I  write  to  you  very  hastily  and  crudely,  for  I  have  been 
very  hard  at  work,  having  only  finished  to-day,  and  my 
head  spins  yet.  But  you  know  what  I  mean.  I  am  then 
always. 

Believe  me,  my  dear  Macready, 

Faithfully  yours, 

Charles  Dickens. 

P.S.— (Proof  of  Dedication  enclosed):  "To  W.  C. 
Macready,  Esq.,  the  following  pages  are  inscribed,  as  a  slight 
token  of  admiration  and  regard,  by  his  friend,  the  Author." 

WITH  A  COPY  OF  "NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY" 

Doughty  Stheet,  1839. 

The  book,  the  whole  book,  and  nothing  but  the  book  (ex- 
cept the  binding,  which  is  an  important  item),  has  arrived  at 
last,  and  is  forwarded  herewith.  The  red  represents  my 
blushes  at  its  gorgeous  dress;  the  gilding,  all  those  bright 
professions  which  I  do  not  make  to  you;  and  the  book  itself, 
my  whole  heart  for  twenty  months,  which  should  be  yours 
for  so  short  a  term,  as  you  have  it  always. 

WHEREIN  MR.  FORSTER  APPEARS  TO  HAVE  MADE  A  SCENE 

Monday,  August  17th  (probably  18-10) 

What  can  I  say  to  you  about  last  night!  Frankly, 
nothing.  Nothing  can  enhance  the  estimation  in  which  I 
hold  you,  or  the  affectionate  and  sincere  attachment  I  bear 


40       Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

towards  you,  my  dear  friend — and  not  even  your  manly 
and  generous  interposition  can  make  me  eloquent  upon  a 
subject  on  which  I  feel  so  deeply  and  singly. 

I  am  very  much  grieved,  and  yet  I  am  not  penitent  and 
cannot  be,  reason  with  myself  as  I  will.  With  all  the 
regard  I  have  for  Forster,  and  with  all  the  close  friendship 
between  us,  I  cannot  close  my  eyes  to  the  fact  that  we  do  not 
quarrel  with  other  men;  and  the  more  I  think  of  it,  the  more 
I  feel  confident  in  the  belief  that  there  is  no  man,  alive  or 
dead,  who  tries  his  friends  as  he  does.  I  declare  to  you 
solemnly,  that  when  I  think  of  his  manner  (far  worse  than 
his  matter)  I  turn  burning  hot  and  am  ashamed  and  in  a 
manner  degraded  to  have  been  the  subject  of  it. 

I  have  found  the  soul  of  goodness  in  this  evil  thing  at  all 
events,  and  when  I  think  of  all  you  said  and  did,  I  would  not 
recall  (if  I  had  the  power)  one  atom  of  my  passion  and  im- 
temperance,  which  carried  with  it  a  breath  of  yours. 

THE  PROMISE  OF  APPLAUSE 

Devonshire  Terrace,  Tuesday,  November  23d. 

My  dear  Macready, 

Please  be  an  out  and  out  villain  tonight. 

Faithfully  yours  always, 
Charles  Dickens. 

MR.  DICKENS  LETS  OFF  STEAM 

Broadstairs,  1841. 

I  must  thank  you  most  heartily  and  cordially,  for  your 
kind  note  relative  to  poor  Overs.  I  can't  tell  you  how  glad 
I  am  to  know  that  he  thoroughly  deserves  such  kindness. 

What  a  good  fellow  Elliotson  is.  He  kept  him  in  his  room 
a  whole  hour,  and  has  gone  into  his  case  as  if  he  were  Prince 
Albert;  laying  down  all  manner  of  elaborate  projects  and 
determining  to  leave  his  friend  Wood  in  town  when  he  him- 


The  Macready  Letters  41 

self  goes  away,  on  purpose  to  attend  to  him.  Then  he 
writes  me  four  sides  of  paper  about  the  man,  and  says  he 
can't  go  back  to  his  old  work,  for  that  requires  muscular 
exertion  (and  muscular  exertion  he  mustn't  make).  What 
are  we  to  do  with  him?  He  says:  " Here's  five  pounds  for 
the  present." 

I  declare  before  God  that  I  could  almost  bear  the  Jones's 
for  five  years  out  of  the  pleasure  I  feel  in  knowing  such 
things,  and  when  I  think  that  every  dirty  speck  upon  the 
fair  face  of  the  Almighty's  creation,  who  writes  in  a  filthy, 
bawdy  newspaper;  every  rotten-hearted  pander  who  has 
been  beaten,  kicked,  and  rolled  in  the  kennel,  yet  struts  it  in 
the  editorial  "We,"  once  a  week;  every  vagabond  that  an 
honest  man's  gorge  must  rise  at;  every  live  emetic  in  that 
noxious  drug-shop  the  press,  can  have  his  fling  at  such  men 
and  call  them  knaves  and  fools  and  thieves,  I  grow  so  vicious 
that,  with  bearing  hard  upon  my  pen,  I  break  the  nib  down, 
and,  with  keeping  my  teeth  set,  make  my  jaws  ache. 

How  Abraham  must  be  smoothing  his  etherial  robes  to 
make  a  warm  place  in  his  bosom  for  the  Protestant  cham- 
pions of  this  time!  What  joy  in  Holy  Heaven  when  the 
angels  look  down  on  Sunday  mornings  and  read  in  bright 
blue  letters  that  Mr.  Westmacott  takes  their  part !  Fancy 
the  Standard,  and  the  Morning  Post,  the  Age,  the  Argus 
and  the  Times  all  on  the  side  of  Christ.    Celestial  Host! 

I  have  put  myself  out  of  sorts  for  the  day  and  shall  go 
and  walk  unless  the  direction  of  this  sets  me  up  again.  On 
second  thoughts,  I  think  it  will. 

SPEAKING  OF  NATURALISM 

Devonshire  Terrace,  1842. 

You  pass  this  house  every  day  on  your  way  to  or  from 
the  theatre.  I  wish  you  would  call  once  as  you  go  by,  and 
soon,  that  you  may  have  plenty  of  time  to  deliberate  on 


42       Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

what  I  wish  to  suggest  to  you.  The  more  I  think  of  Mars- 
ton's  play,  the  more  sure  I  feel  that  a  prologue  to  the  pur- 
pose would  help  it  materially,  and  almost  decide  the  fate  of 
any  ticklish  point  on  the  first  night.  Now  I  have  an  idea 
(not  easily  explainable  in  writing  but  told  in  five  words), 
that  would  take  the  prologue  out  of  the  conventional  dress 
of  prologues,  quite.  Get  the  curtain  up  with  a  dash,  and 
begin  the  play  with  a  sledge-hammer  blow.  If  on  considera- 
tion, you  should  think  with  me,  I  will  write  the  prologue. 

PROLOGUE 

To  Mr.  Marston's  Plat  of  "The  Patrician's  Daughter." 

No  tale  of  streaming  plumes  and  harness  bright 
Dwells  on  the  poet's  maiden  harp  to-night; 
No  trumpet's  clamour  and  no  battle's  fire 
Breathes  in  the  trembling  accents  of  his  lyre; 
Enough  for  him,  if  in  his  lowly  strain 
He  wakes  one  household  echo  not  in  vain; 
Enough  for  him,  if  in  his  boldest  word 
The  beating  heart  of  man  be  dimly  heard. 

Its  solemn  music  which,  like  strains  that  sigh 
Through  charmed  gardens,  all  who  hearing  die; 
Its  solemn  music  he  does  not  pursue 
To  distant  ages  out  of  human  view; 
Nor  listen  to  its  wild  and  mournful  chime 
In  the  dead  caverns  on  the  shore  of  Time; 
But  musing  with  a  calm  and  steady  gaze 
Before  the  crackling  flames  of  living  days. 
He  hears  it  whisper  through  the  busy  roar 
Of  what  shall  be  and  what  has  been  before. 
Awake  the  Present!  shall  no  scene  display 
The  tragic  passion  of  the  passing  day? 
Is  it  with  Man,  as  with  some  meaner  things. 
That  out  of  death  his  single  purpose  springs? 
Can  his  eventful  life  no  moral  teach 
Until  he  be,  for  aye,  beyond  its  reach? 
Obscurely  shall  he  suffer,  act,  and  fade, 
Dubb'd  noble  only  by  the  sexton's  spade? 
Awake  the  Present!    Though  the  steel-clad  age 


The  Macready  Letters  43 

Find  life  alone  within  its  storied  page. 

Iron  is  worn,  at  heart,  by  many  still — 

The  tyrant  Custom  binds  the  serf-like  will; 

If  the  sharp  rack,  and  screw,  and  chain  be  gone. 

These  later  days  have  tortures  of  their  own; 

The  guiltless  writhe,  while  Guilt  is  stretched  in  sleep. 

And  Virtue  lies,  too  often,  dungeon  deep. 

Awake  the  Present!  what  the  Past  has  sown 

Be  in  its  harvest  garner'd,  reap'd,  and  grown! 

How  pride  breeds  pride,  and  wrong  engenders  wrong. 

Read  in  the  volume  Truth  has  held  so  long. 

Assured  that  where  life's  flowers  freshest  blow. 

The  sharpest  thorns  and  keenest  briars  grow. 

How  social  usage  has  the  pow'r  to  change 

Good  thoughts  to  evil;  in  its  highest  range 

To  cramp  vhe  noble  soul,  and  turn  to  ruth 

The  kindling  impulse  of  our  glorious  youth. 

Crushing  the  spirit  in  its  house  of  clay. 

Learn  from  the  lessons  of  the  present  day. 

Not  light  its  import  and  not  poor  its  mien; 

Yourselves  the  actors,  and  your  homes  the  scene. 

TO  MACREADY  IN  AMERICA 

Devonshire  Terrace,  1844. 

You  know  all  the  news,  and  you  know  I  love  you;  so 
I  no  more  know  why  I  write  than  I  do  why  I  "come  round" 
after  the  play  to  shake  hands  with  you  in  your  dressing 
room.  I  say  come,  as  if  you  were  at  this  present  moment 
the  lessee  of  Drury  Lane,  and  had — with  a  long  face  on  one 
hand, — elaborately  explaining  that  everything  in  creation  is 
a  joint-stock  company  on  the  other,  inimitable  B.  by  the 

fire,  in  conversation  with .    Well-a-day!    I  see  it  all,  and 

smell  that  extraordinary  compound  of  odd  scents  peculiar 
to  a  theatre,  which  bursts  upon  me  when  I  swing  open  the 
little  door  in  the  hall,  accompanies  me  as  I  meet  perspiring 
supers  in  the  narrow  passage,  goes  with  me  up  the  two 
steps,  crosses  the  stage,  winds  round  the  third  entrance  P.  S. 
as  I  wind,  and  escorts  me  safely  into  your  presence,  where  I 


44       Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

find  you  unwinding  something  slowly  round  and  round  your 
chest,  which  is  so  long  that  no  man  can  see  the  end  of  it. 

Oh  that  you  had  been  at  Clarence  Terrace  on  Nina's 
birthday!  Good  God,  how  we  missed  you,  talked  of  you, 
drank  your  health,  and  wondered  what  you  were  doing! 
Perhaps  you  are  Falkland  enough  (I  swear  I  suspect  you  of 
it)  to  feel  rather  sore — just  a  little  bit,  you  know,  the  merest 
trifle  in  the  world — on  hearing  that  Mrs.  Macready  looked 
brilliant,  blooming,  young,  and  handsome,  and  that  she 
danced  a  country  dance  with  the  writer  hereof  (Acres  to 
your  Falkland)  in  a  thorough  spirit  of  becoming  good  hu- 
mour and  enjoyment.  Now  you  don't  like  to  be  told  that? 
Nor  do  you  quite  like  to  hear  that  Forster  and  I  conjured 
bravely;  that  a  plum-pudding  was  produced  from  an  empty 
saucepan,  held  over  a  blazing  fire  kindled  in  Stanfield's  hat 
without  damage  to  the  lining;  that  a  box  of  bran  was 
changed  into  a  live  guinea-pig,  which  ran  between  my  god- 
child's feet,  and  was  the  cause  of  such  a  shrill  uproar  and 
clapping  of  hands  that  you  might  have  heard  it  (and  I  dare- 
say did)  in  America;  that  three  half-crowns  being  taken  from 
Major  Burns  and  put  into  a  tumbler  glass  before  his  eyes, 
did  then  and  there  give  jingling  answers  to  the  questions 
asked  of  them  by  me,  and  knew  where  you  were  and  what 
you  were  doing,  to  the  unspeakable  admiration  of  the  whole 
assembly.  Neither  do  you  quite  like  to  be  told  that  we  are 
going  to  do  it  again  next  Saturday,  with  the  addition  of 
demoniacal  dresses  from  the  masquerade  shop;  nor  that 
Mrs.  Macready,  for  her  gallant  bearing  always,  and  her  best 
sort  of  best  affection,  is  the  best  creature  I  know.  Never 
mind;  no  man  shall  gag  me,  and  those  are  my  opinions. 

My  dear  Macready,  the  lecturing  proposition  is  not  to  be 
thought  of.  I  have  not  the  slightest  doubt  or  hesitation  in 
giving  you  my  most  strenuous  and  decided  advice  against  it. 
Looking  only  to  its  effect  at  home,  I  am  immovable  in  my 
conviction  that  the  impression  it  would  produce  would  be 


The  Macready  Letters  45 

one  of  failure,  and  reduction  of  yourself  to  the  level  of  those 
who  do  the  like  here.  To  us  who  know  the  Boston  names 
and  honour  them,  and  who  know  Boston  and  like  it  (Bos- 
ton is  what  I  would  have  the  whole  United  States  to  be), 
the  Boston  requisition  would  be  a  valuable  document,  of 
which  you  and  your  friends  might  be  proud.  But  those 
names  are  perfectly  unknown  to  the  public  here,  and  would 
produce  not  the  least  effect.  The  only  thing  known  to  the 
public  here  is,  that  they  ask  (when  I  say  "they"  I  mean  the 
people)  everybody  to  lecture.  It  is  one  of  the  things  I 
ridiculed  in  "Chuzzlewit."  Lecture  you,  and  you  fall  into  the 
roll  of  Lardners,  Vandenhoffs,  Eltons,  Knowleses,  Bucking- 
hams.  You  are  off  your  pedestal,  have  flung  away  your  glass 
slipper,  and  changed  your  triumphal  coach  into  a  seedy  old 
pumpkin.  I  am  quite  sure  of  it,  and  cannot  express  my 
strong  conviction  in  language  of  sufficient  force. 

"Puff-ridden!"  why  to  be  sure  they  are.  The  nation  is  a 
miserable  Sinbad,  and  its  boasted  press  the  loathsome,  foul, 
old  man  upon  his  back,  and  yet  they  will  tell  you,  and  pro- 
claim to  the  four  winds  for  repetition  here,  that  they  don't 
heed  their  ignorant  and  brutal  papers,  as  if  the  papers  could 
exist  if  they  didn't  heed  them !  Let  any  two  of  these  vaga- 
bonds, in  any  town  you  go  to,  take  it  into  their  heads  to 
make  you  an  object  of  attack,  or  to  direct  the  general  at- 
tention elsewhere,  and  what  avail  those  wonderful  images  of 
passion  which  you  have  been  all  your  life  perfecting ! 

I  have  sent  you,  to  the  charge  of  our  trusty  and  well- 
beloved  Golden,  a  little  book  I  published  on  the  17th  of 
December,  and  which  has  been  a  most  prodigious  success — 
the  greatest,  I  think,  I  have  ever  achieved.  It  pleases  me 
to  think  that  it  will  bring  you  home  for  an  hour  or  two,  and 
I  long  to  hear  you  have  read  it  on  some  quiet  morning.  Do 
they  allow  you  to  be  quiet,  by-the-way?  "Some  of  our 
most  fashionable  people,  sir,"  denounced  me  awfully  for 
liking  to  be  alone  sometimes. 


46       Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

Now  that  we  have  turned  Christmas,  I  feel  as  if  your  face 
were  directed  homewards,  Macready.  The  downhill  part  of 
the  road  is  before  us  now,  and  we  shall  travel  on  to  mid- 
summer at  a  dashing  pace;  and  please  Heaven,  I  will  be  at 
Liverpool  when  you  come  steaming  up  the  Mersey,  with 
that  red  funnel  smoking  out  unutterable  things,  and  your 
heart  much  fuller  than  your  trunks,  though  something 
lighter!  If  I  be  not  the  first  Englishman  to  shake  hands 
with  you  on  English  ground,  the  man  who  gets  before  me 
will  be  a  brisk  and  active  fellow,  and  even  then  need  put  his 
best  leg  foremost.  So  I  warn  Forster  to  keep  in  the  rear,  or 
he'll  be  blown. 

WHILE  REHEARSING  A  JONSON  COMEDY 

Devonshire  Terrace,  1845. 

Between  you  and  me  and  that  post  which  is  in  everybody's 
confidence  I  don't  think  it's  a  very  good  part  and  I  think  the 
comedy  anything  but  a  very  good  play.  It  is  such  a  damned 
thing  to  have  all  the  people  perpetually  coming  on  to  say 
their  part  without  any  action  to  bring  'em  in,  or  to  take  'em 
out,  or  keep  'em  going. 

FROM  ONE  DANDY  TO  ANOTHER 

Devonshire  Terrace,  1845. 

You  once — only  once — gave  the  world  assurance  of  a 
waistcoat.  You  wore  it,  sir,  I  think,  in  "Money."  It  was 
a  remarkable  and  precious  waistcoat,  wherein  certain 
broad  stripes  of  blue  or  purple  disported  themselves  as  by  a 
combination  of  extraordinary  circumstances,  too  happy  to 
occur  again.  I  have  seen  it  on  your  manly  chest  in  private 
life.  I  saw  it,  sir,  I  think,  the  other  day  in  the  cold  light  of 
morning — with  feelings  easier  to  be  imagined  than  described. 
Mr.  Macready,  sir,  are  you  a  father?    If  so,  lend  me  that 


ALFRED      EVELYN..   IN    "MONEY". 

l,„am   't/iA./tr..  m-W-nl  I  ■  *'M- /.tit .""'  * 


Macready  as  Alfred  Evelyn 


The  Macready  Letters  47 

waistcoat  for  five  minutes.     I  am  bidden  to  a  wedding 

(where  fathers  are  made),  and  my  artist  cannot,  I  find  (how 

should  he?),  imagine  such  a  waistcoat.    Let  me  show  it  to 

him  as  a  sample  of  tastes  and  wishes;  and — ha,  ha,  ha,  ha! — 

eclipse  the  bridegroom! 

I  will  send  a  trusty  messenger  at  half -past  nine  precisely, 

in  the  morning.    He  is  sworn  to  secrecy.    He  durst  not  for 

his  life  betray  us,  or  swells  in  ambuscade  would  have  the 

waistcoat  at  the  cost  of  his  heart's  blood. 

Thine, 

The  Unwaistcoated  One. 

TO  OLD  PARR 

Devonshire  Terrace,  1847. 

I  am  in  the  whirlwind  of  finishing  a  number  with  a  crisis 
in  it;  but  I  can't  fall  to  work  without  saying,  in  so  many 
words,  that  I  feel  all  words  insufficient  to  tell  you  what  I 
think  of  you  after  a  night  like  last  night.  The  multitude  of 
new  tokens  by  which  I  know  you  for  a  great  man,  the 
swelling  within  me  of  my  love  for  you,  the  pride  I  have  in 
you,  the  majestic  reflection  I  see  in  you  of  all  the  passions 
and  affections  that  make  up  our  mystery,  throw  me  into  a 
strange  kind  of  transport  that  has  no  expression  but  in  a 
mute  sense  of  an  attachment,  which,  in  truth  and  fervency, 
is  worthy  of  its  subject. 

What  is  this  to  say!  Nothing,  God  knows,  and  yet  I 
cannot  leave  it  unsaid. 

Ever  affectionately  yours, 

Charles  Dickens. 

P.  S. — I  never  saw  you  more  gallant  and  free  than  in  the 
gallant  and  free  scenes  last  night.  It  was  perfectly  captivat- 
ing to  behold  you.  However,  it  shall  not  interfere  with  my 
determination  to  address  you  as  Old  Parr  in  all  future 
time. 


48       Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

TO  MRS.   MACREADY   AFTER  THE    MACREADY-FORREST 
RIOTS  IN  ASTOR  PLACE 

Devonshire  Terrace,  1849. 

When  I  came  home  to  dinner  yesterday  afternoon,  I  found 
an  American  paper  from  Macready.  In  the  first  transports 
of  my  unbounded  indignation,  I  was  coming  up  to  you :  but 
I  thought,  on  cooler  reflection,  that  there  was  no  reason  why 
I  should  worry  you,  in  the  joyful  prospect  of  his  immediate 
return,  with  my  feelings  anent  the  New  Yorkers. 

But  this  I  must  say — that  the  scene  astounds  even  me. 
I  know  perfectly  well  that  many  things  may  take  place  in 
the  first  city  of  the  United  States  which  could  not  possibly 
occur  in  a  remote  nook  of  any  other  country  in  the  world, 
but  the  bestiality  of  the  business,  and  the  incredible  base- 
ness of  that  public  opinion  to  which  Mr.  Clarke  (whoever  he 
is)  deferred  when  he  apologized  for  his  engagement,  I  regard 
as  a  positive  calamity  to  the  rational  freedom  of  men.  To 
Macready  it  signifies  nothing  except  that  it  takes  him  out  of 
that  damnable  jumble  (you'll  excuse  me)  of  false  pretensions 
and  humbugs,  a  week  or  so  sooner.  And  that's  a  good  thing 
for  all  of  us. 

It  strikes  me  that  we  ought  to  have  a  dinner  to  him  here — 
just  large  enough  for  the  proceedings  to  be  made  public  and 
no  larger — in  which  this  thing  should  be  properly  noticed 
and  a  reasonable  expression  of  gentlemanly  disgust  given 
vent  to. 

AN  ACTOR'S  PORTION 

Devonshire  Terrace,  1851. 

I  cannot  forbear  a  word  about  last  night.  I  think  I  have 
told  you  sometimes,  my  much-loved  friend,  how,  when  I  was 
a  mere  boy,  I  was  one  of  your  faithful  and  devoted  ad- 
herents in  the  pit;  I  believe  as  true  a  member  of  that  true 
host  of  followers  as  it  has  ever  boasted.    As  I  improved  my- 


The  Macready  Letters  49 

self  and  was  improved  by  favouring  circumstances  in  mind 
and  fortune,  I  only  became  the  more  earnest  (if  it  were 
possible)  in  my  study  of  you.  No  light  portion  of  my  life 
arose  before  me  when  the  quiet  vision  to  which  I  am  be- 
holden, in  I  don't  know  how  great  a  degree,  or  for  how 
much — who  does? — faded  so  nobly  from  my  bodily  eyes 
last  night.  And  if  I  were  to  try  to  tell  you  what  I  felt — of 
regret  for  its  being  past  for  ever,  and  of  joy  in  the  thought 
that  you  could  have  taken  your  leave  of  me  but  in  God's  own 
time — I  should  only  blot  this  paper  with  some  drops  that 
would  certainly  not  be  of  ink,  and  give  very  faint  expression 
to  very  strong  emotions. 


Chateau  des  Moulineaux,  Boulogne,  1853. 

We  are  living  in  a  beautiful  little  country  place  here, 
where  I  have  been  hard  at  work  ever  since  I  came,  and  am 
now  (after  an  interval  of  a  week's  rest)  going  to  work  again 
to  finish  "  Bleak  House."  Kate  and  Georgina  look  forward, 
I  assure  you,  to  their  Sherborne  visit,  when  I — a  mere  for- 
lorn wanderer — shall  be  roaming  over  the  Alps  into  Italy. 
I  saw  "The  Midsummer  Night's  Dream"  of  the  Opera 
Comique,  done  here  (very  well)  last  night.  The  way  in 
which  a  poet  named  Willyim  Shay  Kes  Peer  gets  drunk  in 
company  with  Sir  John  Foil  Stayffe,  fights  with  a  noble 
knight,  Lor  Latimeer  (who  is  in  love  with  a  maid  of  honour 
you  may  have  read  of  in  history,  called  Mees  Oleevia), 
and  promises  not  to  do  so  any  more  on  observing  symptoms 
of  love  for  him  in  the  Queen  of  England,  is  very  remarkable. 
Queen  Elizabeth,  too,  in  the  profound  and  impenetrable  dis- 
guise of  a  black  velvet  mask,  two  inches  deep  by  three 
broad,  following  him  into  taverns  and  worse  places,  and 
enquiring  of  persons  of  doubtful  reputation  for  "the  sublime 
Williams,"  was  inexpressibly  ridiculous.  And  yet  the  non- 
sense was  done  with  a  sense  quite  admirable. 


50       Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

AFTER  THE  COVENT  GARDEN  FIRE 

49  Champs  Elts^es,  Paris,  1856. 

You  should  have  seen  the  ruins  of  Covent  Garden  Thea- 
tre! I  went  in  the  moment  I  got  to  London — four  days 
after  the  fire.  Although  the  audience  part  and  the  stage 
were  so  tremendously  burnt  out  that  there  was  not  a  piece 
of  wood  half  the  size  of  a  lucifer  match  for  the  eye  to  rest  on, 
though  nothing  whatever  remained  but  bricks  and  smelted 
iron  lying  on  a  great  black  desert,  the  theatre  still  looked  so 
wonderfully  like  its  old  self  grown  gigantic  that  I  never  saw 
so  strange  a  sight.  The  wall  dividing  the  front  from  the 
stage  still  remained,  and  the  iron  pass-doors  stood  ajar  in 
an  impossible  and  inaccessible  frame.  The  arches  that  sup- 
ported the  stage  were  there,  and  the  arches  that  supported 
the  pit;  and  in  the  centre  of  the  latter  lay  something  like 
a  Titanic  grape-vine  that  a  hurricane  had  pulled  up  by  the 
roots,  twisted,  and  flung  down  there;  this  was  the  great 
chandelier.  Gye  had  kept  the  men's  wardrobe  at  the  top  of 
the  house  over  the  great  entrance  staircase;  when  the  roof 
fell  in  it  came  down  bodily,  and  all  that  part  of  the  ruins  was 
like  an  old  Babylonic  pavement,  bright  rays  tesselating  the 
black  ground,  sometimes  in  pieces  so  large  that  I  could 
make  out  the  clothes  in  the  "Trovatore." 

I  should  run  on  for  a  couple  of  hours  if  I  had  to  describe 
the  spectacle  as  I  saw  it,  wherefore  I  will  immediately 
muzzle  myself.  All  Parisian  novelties  you  shall  see  and 
hear  for  yourself. 

ON  MACREADY'S  REMARRIAGE 

Tavistock  House,  1860. 

I  am  heartily  glad  (and  not  much  surprised)  to  get  your 
letter.  You  knew  that  my  confidence  in  you  was  great  as 
my  love  for  you,  and  I  am  thoroughly  persuaded  that  you 
are  right.    It  is  inexpressibly  delightful  and  interesting  to 


The  Macready  Letters  51 

me,  to  picture  you  in  a  new  life  and  movement  and  hope 
and  pleasure  about  you.  This  feeling  springs  up  in  me  for 
your  sake,  and  for  the  sake  of  your  children,  too.  More- 
over, I  do  not  believe  that  a  heart  like  yours  was  made  to 
hold  so  large  a  waste-place  as  there  has  been  in  it.  And  this 
consideration,  as  one  in  the  eternal  nature  of  things,  I  put 
first  of  all. 

God  bless  you,  and  God  bless  the  object  of  your  choice! 
Your  letter  came  with  the  sunshine  of  the  Spring  morning, 
and  shone  in  my  heart  quite  as  naturally  and  cheerily.  I 
have  been  to  Gad's  Hill  and  back,  since  I  received  it,  and 
everything  has  looked  the  fresher  for  it  in  my  sight. 

Ever,  my  dear  friend. 

Your  most  affectionate, 

Charles  Dickens. 

Aha ! — w^hat  do  you  say  now  to  those  noble  remarks  I  was 
making  at  Forster's  the  other  day,  about  the  stout  English- 
men all  over  the  world  who  are  always  young?  I  feel  a 
grin  of  intolerable  (except  to  me)  self-complacency  mantle 
all  over  me  as  I  think  of  my  wisdom. 

Office  of  "All  the  Year  Round,"  1863. 

I  have  just  come  back  from  Paris,  where  the  readings — 
"Copperfield,"  "Dombey"  and  "Trial,"  and  "Carol"  and 
"Trial" — have  made  a  sensation  which  modesty  (my  na- 
tural modesty)  renders  it  impossible  for  me  to  describe.  You 
know  what  a  noble  audience  the  Paris  audience  is?  They 
were  at  their  very  noblest  with  me. 

I  was  very  much  concerned  by  hearing  hurriedly  from 
Georgy  that  you  were  ill.  But  when  I  came  home  at  night, 
she  showed  me  Katie's  letter,  and  that  set  me  up  again. 
Ah,  you  have  the  best  of  companions  and  nurses,  and  can 
afford  to  be  ill  now  and  then  for  the  happiness  of  being  so 
brought  through  it.  But  don't  do  it  again  yet  awhile  for 
all  that. 


52       Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

Regnier  desired  to  be  warmly  remembered  to  you.  He 
looks  just  as  of  yore. 

Paris  generally  is  about  as  wicked  and  extravagant  as  in 
the  days  of  the  Regency.  Madame  Viardot  in  the  "  Orphee," 
most  splendid.  An  opera  of  "Faust,"  a  very  sad  and  noble 
rendering  of  that  sad  and  noble  story.  Stage  management 
remarkable  for  some  admirable,  and  really  poetical,  effects 
of  light.  In  the  more  striking  situations,  Mephistopheles 
surrounded  by  an  infernal  red  atmosphere  of  his  own.  Mar- 
guerite by  a  pale  blue  mournful  light.  The  two  never 
blending.  After  Marguerite  has  taken  the  jewels  placed  in 
her  way  in  the  garden,  a  weird  evening  draws  on,  and  the 
bloom  fades  from  the  flowers,  and  the  leaves  of  the  trees 
droop  and  lose  their  fresh  green,  and  mournful  shadows 
overhang  her  chamber  window,  which  was  innocently  bright 
and  gay  at  first.    I  couldn't  bear  it,  and  gave  in  completely. 

Fechter  doing  wonders  over  the  way  here,  with  a  pic- 
turesque French  drama.  Miss  Kate  Terry,  in  a  small  part 
in  it,  perfectly  charming.  You  may  remember  her  making  a 
noise,  years  ago,  doing  a  boy  at  an  inn,  in  "The  Courier  of 
Lyons  "?  She  has  a  tender  love-scene  in  this  piece,  which  is 
a  really  beautiful  and  artistic  thing.  I  saw  her  do  it  about 
three  in  the  morning  of  the  day  when  the  theatre  opened, 
surrounded  by  shavings  and  carpenters,  and  (of  course) 
with  that  inevitable  hammer  going;  and  I  told  Fechter: 
"That  is  the  very  best  piece  of  womanly  tenderness  I  have 
ever  seen  on  the  stage,  and  you'll  find  that  no  audience  can 
miss  it."  It  is  a  comfort  to  add  that  it  was  instantly  seized 
upon,  and  is  much  talked  of. 

Stanfield  was  very  ill  for  some  months,  then  suddenly 
picked  up,  and  is  really  rosy  and  jovial  again.  Going  to  see 
him  when  he  was  very  despondent,  I  told  him  the  story  of 
Fechter's  piece  (then  in  rehearsal)  with  appropriate  action; 
fighting  a  duel  with  the  washing-stand,  defying  the  bed- 
stead, and  saving  the  life  of  the  sofa-cushion.     This  so 


The  Macready  Letters  53 

kindled  his  old  theatrical  ardour,  that  I  think  he  turned  the 
corner  on  the  spot. 

With  love  to  Mrs.  Macready  and  Katie,  and  (be  still  my 
heart!)  Benvenuta,  and  the  exiled  Johnny  (not  too  atten- 
tive at  school,  I  hope?),  and  the  personally-unknown  young 
Parr, 

Ever,  my  dearest  Macready,  your  most  affectionate, 

Charles  Dickens. 

NIBLO'S  GARDEN 

Springfield,  Mass.,  1868. 

To  pass  from  Boston  personal  to  New  York  theatrical,  I 
will  mention  here  that  one  of  the  proprietors  of  my  New 
York  hotel  is  one  of  the  proprietors  of  Niblo's,  and  the  most 
active.  Consequently  I  have  seen  the  "Black  Crook"  and 
the  "  White  Fawn,"  in  majesty,  from  an  armchair  in  the  first 
entrance,  P.  S.,  more  than  once.  Of  these  astonishing 
dramas,  I  beg  to  report  (seriously)  that  I  have  found  no 
human  creature  "behind"  who  has  the  slightest  idea  what 
they  are  about  (upon  my  honour,  my  dearest  Macready!), 
and  that  having  some  amiable  small  talk  with  a  neat  little 
Spanish  woman,  who  is  the  premiere  danseuse,  I  asked  her, 
in  joke,  to  let  me  measure  her  skirt  wdth  my  dress  glove. 
Holding  the  glove  by  the  tip  of  the  forefinger,  I  found  the 
skirt  to  be  just  three  gloves  long  and  yet  its  length  was  much 
in  excess  of  the  skirts  of  two  hundred  other  ladies,  whom 
the  carpenters  were  at  that  moment  getting  into  their 
places  for  a  transformation  scene,  on  revolving  columns,  on 
wires  and  "travellers"  in  iron  cradles,  up  in  the  flies,  down 
in  the  cellars,  on  every  description  of  float  that  Wilmot, 
gone  distracted,  could  imagine! 


II.    Miscellaneous  Letters 


55 


11.    MISCELLANEOUS  LETTERS 

After  "The  Village  Coquettes" 

To  John  Hullah.  1836. 

Have  you  seen  The  Examiner?  It  is  rather  depreciatory 
of  the  opera;  but,  like  all  inveterate  critiques  against 
Braham,  so  well  done  that  I  cannot  help  laughing  at  it,  for 
the  life  and  soul  of  me.  I  have  seen  The  Sunday  Times, 
The  Dispatch,  and  The  Satirist,  all  of  which  blow  their  critic 
trumpets  against  unhappy  me  most  lustily.  Either  I  must 
have  grievously  awakened  the  ire  of  all  the  "adaptors" 
and  their  friends,  or  the  drama  must  be  decidedly  bad.  I 
haven't  made  up  my  mind  yet  which  of  the  two  is  the  fact. 

The  Exorbitant  Dramatist 

To  J.  P.  Barley.  1837. 

I  have  considered  the  terms  on  which  I  could  afford  just 
now  to  sell  Mr.  Braham  the  acting  copyright  in  London  of  an 
entirely  new  piece  for  the  St.  James's  Theatre;  and  I  could 
not  sit  down  to  write  one  in  a  single  act  of  about  one  hour 
long,  under  a  hundred  pounds.  For  a  new  piece  in  two  acts, 
a  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  would  be  the  sum  I  should  re- 
quire. 

I  do  not  know  whether,  with  reference  to  arrangements 
that  were  made  with  any  other  writers,  this  may,  or  may 
not,  appear  a  large  item.  I  state  it  merely  with  regard  to 
the  value  of  my  own  time  and  writings  at  this  moment. 

57 


58       Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

The  Old  Furor 

To  Professor  Felton.  Montreal,  18^2. 

I  would  give  something  ....  if  you  could  stumble 
into  that  very  dark  and  dusty  theatre  in  the  day-time  (at 
any  minute  between  twelve  and  three),  and  see  me  with  my 
coat  off,  the  stage  manager  and  universal  director,  urging 
impracticable  ladies  and  impossible  gentlemen  on  to  the  very 
confines  of  insanity,  shouting  and  driving  about,  in  my  own 
person,  to  an  extent  which  would  justify  any  philanthropic 
stranger  in  clapping  me  into  a  strait-waistcoat  without 
further  inquiry,  endeavouring  to  goad  H.  into  some  dim  and 
faint  understanding  of  a  prompter's  duties,  and  struggling 
in  such  a  vortex  of  noise,  dirt,  bustle,  confusion,  and  inex- 
tricable entanglement  of  speech  and  action  as  you  would 
grow  giddy  in  contemplating.  .  .  .  This  kind  of  volun- 
tary hard  labour  used  to  be  my  great  delight.  The  furor 
has  come  upon  me  again,  and  I  begin  to  be  once  more  of 
opinion  that  nature  intended  me  for  the  lessee  of  a  national 
theatre, and  that  pen,  ink,  and  paper  have  spoiled  a  manager. 

An  Unborn  Play 

To  Douglas  J  err  old.  Devonshire  Terrace,  18^3. 

Yes,  you  have  anticipated  my  occupation.  Chuzzlewit 
be  hanged — high  comedy  and  five  hundred  pounds  are  the 
only  matters  I  can  think  of.  I  call  it  "The  One  Thing 
Needful;  or,  the  Part  is  Better  than  the  Whole."  Here  are 
the  characters: 

Old  Febrile Mr.  Farren 

Young  Febrile  (his  son) Mr.  Howe 

Jack  Hessians  (his  friend) Mr.   W.  Lacy 

Chalks  (a  landlord) Mr.  Gough 

Hon.  Harry  Staggers Mr.  Mellon 

Sir  Thomas  Tip Mr.  BucJcstone 


Miscellaneous  Letters  59 

Swig Mr.  Webster 

The  Duke  of  Leeds Mr.  Coutts 

Sir  Smiven  Growler Mr.  Macready 

SERVANTS,  GAMBLERS,  visitors,  etc. 

Mrs.  Febrile Mrs.  Glover 

Lady  Tip Mrs.  Humby 

Mrs,  Sour Mrs.  Clifford 

Fanny Miss   A .    Smith 

One  scene,  where  Old  Febrile  tickles  Lady  Tip  in  the  ribs, 
and  afterwards  dances  out  with  his  hat  behind  him,  his 
stick  before,  and  his  eye  on  the  pit,  I  expect  will  bring  the 
house  down.  There  is  also  another  point — where  old  Fe- 
brile, at  the  conclusion  of  his  disclosure  to  Swig,  rises  and 
says,  "And  now,  Mr.  Swig,  tell  me,  have  I  acted  well?" 
and  Swig  says,  "  Well,  Mr.  Febrile,  have  you  ever  acted  ill.'' " 
which  will  carry  off  the  piece. 

I  walk  up  and  down  the  street  at  the  back  of  the  theatre 
every  night,  and  peep  in  at  the  green-room  window,  thinking 
of  the  time  when  "Dick-ens"  will  be  called  for  by  excited 
hundreds,  and  won't  come — till  Mr.  Webster  (half  Swig  and 
half  himself)  shall  enter  from  his  dressing-room,  and  quell- 
ing the  tempest  with  a  smile,  beseech  that  wizard  if  he  be 
in  the  house  (here  he  looks  up  at  my  box),  to  accept  the 
congratulations  of  the  audience  and  indulge  them  with  a 
sight  of  the  man  who  had  got  five  hundred  pounds  in  money, 
and  it's  impossible  to  say  how  much  in  laurels.  Then  I 
shall  come  forward  and  bow,  once,  twice,  thrice — 
roars  of  approbation.  Barvyo!  brarvo!  Hooray! 
hoorar!  hooroar! — one  cheer  more — and  asking  Webster 
home  to  supper,  shall  declare  eternal  friendship  for  that 
public-spirited  individual,  which  Talfourd  (the  vice)  will 
echo  with  all  his  heart  and  soul,  and  with  tears  in  his  eyes, 
adding  in  a  perfectly  audible  voice,  and  in  the  same  breath. 


6o       Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play- 
that  "he's  a  very  wretched  creature,  but  better  than  Ma- 
cready  any  way,  for  he  wouldn't  play  Ion  when  it  was  given 
to  him."    After  which  he  will  propose  said  Macready's 
health  in  terms  of  red-hot  eloquency. 

I  am  always,  my  dear  Jerrold,  faithfully  your  friend, 

The  Congreve  of  the  19th  Century. 
(Which  I  mean  to  be  called  in  the  Sunday  papers.) 
P.  S. — I  shall  dedicate  it  to  Webster,  beginning: 
"My  dear  Sir — When  you  first  proposed  to  stimulate 
the  slumbering  dramatic  talent  of  England,  I  assure  you  I 
had  not  the  least  idea,  etc.,  etc.,  etc." 


England  on  the  French  Stage 

To  Forster.  18Jf7. 

"Clarissa  Harlowe"  is  still  the  rage.  There  are  some 
things  in  it  rather  calculated  to  astonish  the  ghost  of  Rich- 
ardson, but  Clarissa  is  very  admirably  played  (by  Rose 
Cheri),  and  dies  better  than  the  original,  to  my  thinking; 
but  Richardson  is  no  great  favourite  of  mine,  and  never 
seems  to  me  to  take  his  top-boots  off,  whatever  he  does. 
Several  pieces  are  in  course  of  representation,  involving  rare 
portraits  of  the  English.  In  one,  a  servant,  called  "Tom 
Bob,"  who  wears  a  particularly  English  waistcoat,  trimmed 
with  gold  lace  and  concealing  his  ankles,  does  very  good 
things  indeed.  In  another,  a  Prime  Minister  of  England, 
who  has  ruined  himself  by  railway  speculations,  hits  off 
some  of  our  national  characteristics  very  happily,  frequently 
making  incidental  mention  of  "  Vishmingster,"  "Regeen 
Street,"  and  other  places  with  which  you  are  well  ac- 
quainted. "Sir  Fakson"  is  one  of  the  characters  in  another 
play — "English  to  the  Core";  and  I  saw  a  Lord  Mayor  of 
London  at  one  of  the  small  theatres  the  other  night,  looking 
uncommonly   well  in   a  stage-coachman's   waistcoat,   the 


Miscellaneous  Letters  6i 

Order   of   the   Garter,   and   a   very   low-crowned,   broad- 
brimmed  hat,  not  unhke  a  dustman. 

At  the  Opera  in  Rome 
To  Forster.  Rome,  1853. 

All  the  seats  are  numbered  arm-chairs,  and  you  buy  your 
number  at  the  pay-place,  and  go  to  it  with  the  easiest  direc- 
tion on  the  ticket  itself.  We  were  early,  and  the  four  places 
of  the  Americans  were  on  the  next  row  behind  us — all 
together.  After  looking  about  for  some  time,  and  seeing 
the  greater  part  of  the  seats  empty  (because  the  audienc^ 
generally  wait  in  a  cafFe  which  is  part  of  the  theatre), 
one  of  them  said,  "Waal  I  dunno — I  expect  we  ain't  no  caU 
to  set  so  nigh  to  one  another  neither — will  you  scatter 
Kernel,  will  you  scatter  sir?" — Upon  this  the  Kernel  "scat- 
tered "  some  twenty  benches  off;  and  they  distributed  them- 
selves (for  no  earthly  reason  apparently  but  to  get  rid  of 
one  another)  all  over  the  pit.  As  soon  as  the  overture  began, 
in  came  the  audience  in  a  mass.  Then  the  people  who  had 
got  numbers  into  which  they  had  "scattered"  had  to  get  out 
of  them;  and  as  they  understood  nothing  that  was  said  to 
them,  and  could  make  no  reply  but  "A-mericani,"  you  may 
imagine  the  number  of  cocked  hats  it  took  to  dislodge  them. 
At  last  they  were  all  back  into  their  right  places,  except  one. 
About  an  hour  afterwards  when  Moses  ("Moses  in  Egypt"  was 
the  opera)  was  invoking  the  darkness,  and  there  was  a  dead 
silence  all  over  the  house,  unwonted  sounds  of  disturbance 
broke  out  from  a  distant  corner  of  the  pit,  and  here  and 
there  a  beard  got  up  to  look.  "What  is  it  now,  sir?"  said 
one  of  the  Americans  to  another; — "some  person  seems  to 
be  getting  along,  again  streem."  "Waal  sir,"  he  replied, 
"I  dunno.  But  I  expect  'tis  the  Kernel  sir,  a  holden  on." 
So  it  was.  The  Kernel  was  ignominiously  escorted  back  to 
his  right  place,  not  in  the  least  disconcerted,  and  in  per- 
fectly good  spirits  and  temper.    The  opera  was  excellently 


62       Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

done,  and  the  price  of  the  stalls  one  and  threepence  English. 
At  Milan,  on  the  other  hand,  the  Scala  was  fallen  from  its  old 
estate,  dirty,  gloomy,  dull,  and  the  performance  execrable. 

Marionettes 

To  Forster.  Rome,  1853. 

It  was  a  wet  night,  and  there  was  no  audience,  but  a 
party  of  French  oflBcers  and  ourselves.  We  all  sat  together. 
I  never  saw  anything  more  amazing  than  the  performance — 
altogether  only  an  hour  long,  but  managed  by  as  many  as 
ten  people,  for  we  saw  them  all  go  behind,  at  the  ringing  of  a 
bell.  The  saving  of  a  young  lady  by  a  good  fairy  from  the 
machinations  of  an  enchanter,  coupled  with  the  comic  busi- 
ness of  her  servant  Pulcinella  (the  Roman  Punch)  formed 
the  plot  of  the  first  piece.  A  scolding  old  peasant  woman, 
who  always  leaned  forward  to  scold  and  put  her  hands  in  the 
pockets  of  her  apron,  was  incredibly  natural.  Pulcinella, 
so  airy,  so  merry,  so  life-like,  so  graceful,  he  was  irresistible. 
To  see  him  carrying  an  umbrella  over  his  mistress's  head  in 
a  storm,  talking  to  a  prodigious  giant  whom  he  met  in  the 
forest,  and  going  to  bed  with  a  pony,  were  things  never  to 
be  forgotten.  And  so  delicate  are  the  hands  of  the  people 
who  move  them,  that  every  puppet  was  an  Italian,  and  did 
exactly  what  an  Italian  does.  If  he  pointed  at  any  object, 
if  he  saluted  anybody,  if  he  laughed,  if  he  cried,  he  did  it  as 
never  Englishman  did  it  since  Britain  first  at  Heaven's  com- 
mand arose — arose — arose,  &c.  There  was  a  ballet  after- 
wards, on  the  same  scale,  and  we  came  away  really  quite 
enchanted  with  the  delicate  drollery  of  the  thing.  French 
more  than  ditto. 

A  French  Conjuror 

To  Forster.  Boulogne,  1851^. 

You  are  to  observe  that  he  was  with  the  company,  not  in 
the  least  removed  from  them;  and  that  we  occupied  the 


Miscellaneous  Letters  63 

front  row.  He  brought  in  some  writing  paper  with  hira 
when  he  entered,  and  a  black-lead  pencil;  and  he  wrote  some 
words  on  half-sheets  of  paper.  One  of  these  half-sheets  he 
folded  into  two,  and  gave  to  Catherine  to  hold.  Madame, 
he  says  aloud,  will  you  think  of  any  class  of  objects?  I  have 
done  so, — Of  what  class,  Madame?  Animals.  Will  you 
think  of  a  particular  animal,  Madame?  I  have  done  so, — 
Of  what  animal?  The  Lion. — Will  you  think  of  another 
class  of  objects,  Madame?  I  have  done  so. — Of  what  class? 
Flowers. — The  particular  flower?  The  Rose. — Will  you 
open  the  paper  you  hold  in  your  hand.  She  opened  it,  and 
there  was  neatly  and  plainly  written  in  pencil. — the  lion. 
THE  ROSE.  Nothing  whatever  had  led  up  to  these  words, 
and  they  were  the  most  distant  conceivable  from  Catherine's 
thought  when  she  entered  the  room.  He  had  several  com- 
mon school-slates  about  a  foot  square.  He  took  one  of  them 
to  a  field-officer  from  the  camp,  decore  and  what  not,  who 
sat  about  six  from  us,  with  a  grave,  saturnine  friend  next 
him.  My  General,  says  he,  will  you  write  a  name  on  this 
slate,  after  your  friend  has  done  so?  Don't  show  it  to  me. 
The  friend  wrote  a  name,  and  the  General  wrote  a  name. 
The  conjuror  took  the  slate  rapidly  from  the  officer,  threw 
it  violently  down  on  the  ground  with  its  written  side  to  the 
floor  and  asked  the  officer  to  put  his  foot  upon  it,  and  keep 
it  there:  which  he  did.  The  conjuror  considered  for  about 
a  minute,  looking  devilish  hard  at  the  General. — My  Gen- 
eral, says  he,  your  friend  wrote  Dagobert,  upon  the  slate 
under  your  foot.  The  friend  admits  it. — And  you,  my 
General,  wrote  Nicholas.  General  admits  it,  and  everybody 
laughs  and  applauds. — My  General,  will  you  excuse  me,  if 
I  change  that  name  into  a  name  expressive  of  the  power  of 
a  great  nation,  which  in  happy  alliance  with  the  gallantry 
and  spirit  of  France  will  shake  that  name  to  its  centre? 
Certainly  I  will  excuse  it. — My  General,  take  up  the  slate 
and  read.     General  reads:  Dagobert,  Victoria.     The  first 


64       Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

in  his  friend's  writing;  the  second  in  a  new  hand.  I  never 
saw  anything  in  the  least  like  this;  or  at  all  approaching  to 
the  absolute  certainty,  the  familiarity,  quickness,  absence 
of  all  machinery,  and  actual  face-to-face,  hand-to-hand 
fairness  between  the  conjuror  and  the  audience,  with  which 
it  was  done.  I  have  not  the  slighest  idea  of  the  secret. — 
Once  more. 

He  was  blinded  with  several  table  napkins,  and  then  a 
great  cloth  was  bodily  thrown  over  them  and  his  head  too, 
so  that  his  voice  sounded  as  it  he  were  under  a  bed.  Per- 
haps half  a  dozen  dates  were  written  on  a  slate.  He  takes 
the  slate  in  his  hand,  and  throws  it  violently  down  on  the 
floor,  as  before,  remains  silent  a  minute,  seems  to  become 
agitated  and  bursts  out  thus:  "What  is  this  I  see?  A  great 
city,  but  of  narrow  streets  and  old-fashioned  houses,  many 
of  which  are  of  wood,  resolving  itself  into  ruins!  How  is 
it  falling  into  ruins?  Hark!  I  hear  the  crackling  of  a  great 
conflagration,  and  looking  up,  I  behold  a  vast  cloud  of  flame, 
and  smoke.  The  ground  is  covered  with  hot  cinders  too, 
and  people  are  flying  into  the  fields  and  endeavouring  to 
save  their  goods.  This  great  fire,  this  great  wind,  this  roar- 
ing noise!  This  is  the  great  fire  of  London,  and  the  first 
date  upon  the  slate  must  be  one,  six,  six,  six, — the  year  in 
which  it  happened!"  And  so  on  with  all  the  other  dates. 
There ! 

A  Friendly  Critic 

To  John  Saunders.  Tavistock  House,  185^.. 

I  have  had  much  gratification  and  pleasure  in  the  receipt 
of  your  obliging  communication.  Allow  me  to  thank  you  for 
it,  in  the  first  place,  with  great  cordiality. 

Although  I  cannot  say  that  I  came  without  any  preposses- 
sions to  the  perusal  of  your  play  (for  I  had  favourable  in- 
clinings  towards  it  before  I  began),  I  can  say  that  I  read  it 


Miscellaneous  Letters  65 

with  the  closest  attention,  and  that  it  inspired  me  with  a 
strong  interest,  and  a  genuine  and  high  admiration.  The 
parts  that  involve  some  of  the  greatest  difficulties  of  your 
task  appear  to  me  those  in  which  you  shine  most.  I  would 
particularly  instance  the  end  of  Julia  as  a  very  striking 
example  of  this.  The  delicacy  and  beauty  of  her  redemption 
from  her  weak,  rash  lover,  are  very  far  indeed  beyond  the 
range  of  any  ordinary  dramatist,  and  display  the  true 
poetical  strength. 

As  your  hopes  now  centre  in  Mr.  Phelps,  and  in  seeing  the 
child  of  your  fancy  on  his  stage,  I  will  venture  to  point  out 
to  you  not  only  what  I  take  to  be  very  dangerous  portions  of 
"Love's  Martyrdom"  as  it  stands,  for  presentation  on  the 
stage,  but  portions  which  I  believe  Mr.  Phelps  will  speedily 
regard  in  that  light  when  he  sees  it  before  him  in  the  persons 
of  live  men  and  women  on  the  wooden  boards.  Knowing 
him,  I  think  he  will  be  then  as  violently  discouraged  as  he  is 
now  generously  exalted;  and  it  may  be  useful  to  you  to  be 
prepared  for  the  consideration  of  those  passages. 

I  do  not  regard  it  as  a  great  stumbling-block  that  the 
play  of  modern  times  best  known  to  an  audience  proceeds 
upon  the  main  idea  of  this,  namely,  that  there  was  a  hunch- 
back who,  because  of  his  deformity,  mistrusted  himself. 
But  it  is  certainly  a  grain  in  the  balance  when  the  balance 
is  going  the  wrong  way,  and  therefore  it  should  be  most 
carefully  trimmed.  The  incident  of  the  ring  is  an  insignifi- 
cant one  to  look  at  over  a  row  of  gaslights,  is  difficult  to 
convey  to  an  audience,  and  the  least  thing  will  make  it 
ludicrous.  If  it  be  so  well  done  by  Mr.  Phelps  himself  as  to 
be  otherwise  than  ludicrous,  it  will  be  disagreeable.  If  it  be 
either,  it  will  be  perilous,  and  doubly  so,  because  you  revert 
to  it.  The  quarrel  scene  between  the  two  brothers  in  the 
third  act  is  now  so  long  that  the  justification  of  blind  passion 
and  impetuosity — which  can  alone  bear  out  Franklyn, 
before  the  bodily  eyes  of  a  great  concourse  of  spectators, 


66       Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

in  plunging  at  the  life  of  his  own  brother — is  lost.  That  the 
two  should  be  parted,  and  that  Franklyn  should  again  drive 
at  him,  and  strike  him,  and  then  wound  him,  is  a  state  of 
things  to  set  the  sympathy  of  an  audience  in  the  wrong 
direction,  and  turn  it  from  the  man  you  make  happy  to  the 
man  you  leave  unhappy.  I  would  on  no  account  allow  the 
artist  to  appear  attended  by  that  picture  more  than  once. 
All  the  most  sudden  inconstancy  of  Clarence  I  would  soften 
down.  Margaret  must  act  much  better  than  any  actress  I 
have  ever  seen,  if  all  her  lines  fall  in  pleasant  places;  there- 
fore, I  think  she  needs  compression  too. 

All  this  applies  solely  to  the  theatre.  If  you  ever  revise 
the  sheets  for  readers,  will  you  note  in  the  margin  the  broken 
laughter  and  the  appeals  to  the  Deity.?  If,  on  summing 
them  up,  you  find  you  want  them  all,  I  would  leave  them 
as  they  stand  by  all  means.    If  not,  I  would  blot  accordingly. 

It  is  only  in  the  hope  of  being  slightly  useful  to  you  by 
anticipating  what  I  believe  Mr.  Phelps  will  discover — or 
what,  if  ever  he  should  pass  it,  I  have  a  strong  conviction 
the  audience  will  find  out — that  I  have  ventured  on  these 
few  hints.  Your  concurrence  with  them  generally,  on  re- 
consideration, or  your  preference  for  the  poem  as  it  stands, 
cannot  in  the  least  afiPect  my  interest  in  your  success.  On 
the  other  hand,  I  have  a  perfect  confidence  in  your  not  tak- 
ing my  misgivings  ill ;  they  arise  out  of  my  sincere  desire  for 
the  triumph  of  your  work. 

On  Goldsmith 

To  de  Cerjat.  Tavistock  House,  1855. 

Let  me  recommend  you,  as  a  brother-reader  of  high  dis- 
tinction, two  comedies,  both  Goldsmith's — "She  Stoops  to 
Conquer"  and  "The  Good-natured  Man."  Both  are  so 
admirable  and  so  delightfully  written  that  they  read  wonder- 
fully.   A  friend  of  mine,  Forster,  who  wrote  "The  Life  of 


Miscellaneous  Letters  67 

Goldsmith,"  was  very  ill  a  year  or  so  ago,  and  begged  me  to 
read  to  him  one  night  as  he  lay  in  bed,  "something  of  Gold- 
smith's." I  fell  upon  "She  Stoops  to  Conquer,"  and  we 
enjoyed  it  with  that  wonderful  intensity,  that  I  believe  he 
began  to  get  better  in  the  first  scene,  and  was  all  right  again 
in  the  fifth  act. 

An  Englishman  Abroad 
To  Miss  Hogarth.  Paris,  1855. 

The  theatres  are  not  particularly  good,  but  I  have  seen 
Lemaitre  act  in  the  most  wonderful  and  astounding  man- 
ner. I  am  afraid  we  must  go  to  the  Opera  Comique  on 
Sunday.  To-morrow  we  dine  with  Regnier,  and  to-day  with 
the  Oliffes. 

"La  Joie  fait  Peur,"  at  the  Frangais,  delighted  me.  Ex- 
quisitely played  and  beautifully  imagined  altogether. 
Last  night  we  went  to  the  Porte  St.  Martin  to  see  a  piece 
(English  subject)  called  "Jane  Osborne,"  which  the  char- 
acters pronounce  "  Ja  Nosbornne."  The  seducer  was  Lord 
Nottingham.  The  comic  Englishwoman's  name  (she  kept 
lodgings  and  was  a  very  bad  character)  was  Missees  Christ- 
mas. She  had  begun  to  get  into  great  difficulties  with  a 
gentleman  of  the  name  of  Meestair  Cornhill,  when  we  were 
obliged  to  leave,  at  the  end  of  the  first  act,  by  the  intoler- 
able stench  of  the  place.  The  whole  theatre  must  be  stand- 
ing over  some  vast  cess-pool.  It  was  so  alarming  that  I 
instantly  rushed  into  a  cafe  and  had  brandy. 

My  ear  has  gradually  become  so  accustomed  to  French, 
that  I  understand  the  people  at  the  theatres  (for  the  first 
time)  with  perfect  ease  and  satisfaction.  I  walked  about 
with  Regnier  for  an  hour  and  a  half  yesterday,  and  received 
many  compliments  on  my  angelic  manner  of  speaking  the 
celestial  language.  There  is  a  winter  Franconi's  now,  high 
up  on  the  Boulevards,  just  like  the  round  theatre  on  the 
Champs  Ely  sees,  and  as  bright  and  beautiful.     A  clown 


68       Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

from  Astley's  is  all  in  high  favour  there  at  present.  He 
talks  slang  English  (being  evidently  an  idiot),  as  if  he  felt 
a  perfect  confidence  that  everybody  understands  him.  His 
name  is  Boswell,  and  the  whole  cirque  rang  last  night  with 
cries  for  Boz  Zwillll!  Boz  Zweellll!  Boz  Zwuallll!  etc., 
etc.,  etc.,  etc. 

On  Frederic  Lemaitre 

To  Forster.  Paris,  1855. 

Incomparably  the  finest  acting  I  ever  saw,  I  saw  last 
night  at  the  Ambigu.  They  have  revived  that  old  piece, 
once  immensely  popular  in  London  under  the  name  of 
THIRTY  YEARS  OF  A  gambler's  LIFE.  Old  Lcmattrc  plays 
his  famous  character,  and  never  did  I  see  anything  in  art, 
so  exaltedly  horrible  and  awefull.  In  the  earlier  acts  he  was 
so  well  made  up,  and  so  light  and  active  that  he  really  looked 
sufficiently  young.  But  in  the  last  two,  when  he  had  grown 
old  and  miserable,  he  did  the  finest  things,  I  really  believe, 
that  are  within  the  power  of  acting.  Two  or  three  times,  a 
great  cry  of  horror  went  all  round  the  house.  When  he  met, 
in  the  inn-yard,  the  traveller  whom  he  murders,  and  first 
saw  his  money,  the  manner  in  which  the  crime  came  into 
his  head — and  eyes — was  as  truthful  as  it  was  terrific. 
This  traveller,  being  a  good  fellow,  gives  him  wine.  You 
should  see  the  dim  remembrance  of  his  better  days  that 
comes  over  him  as  he  takes  the  glass,  and  in  a  strange,  dazed 
way  makes  as  if  he  were  going  to  touch  the  other  man's,  or 
do  some  airy  thing  with  it;  and  then  stops  and  flings  the 
contents  down  his  hot  throat,  as  if  he  were  pouring  it  into 
a  limekiln.  But  this  was  nothing  to  what  follows  after  he 
has  done  the  murder,  and  comes  home,  with  a  basket  of 
provisions,  a  ragged  pocket  full  of  money,  and  badly-washed 
bloody  right  hand — which  his  little  girl  finds  out.  After  the 
child  asked  him  if  he  had  hurt  his  hand,  his  going  aside, 
turning  himself  round,  and  looking  over  all  his  clothes  for 


Miscellaneous  Letters  69 

spots,  was  so  inexpressibly  dreadful  that  it  really  scared 
one.  He  called  for  wine,  and  the  sickness  that  came  upon 
him  when  he  saw  the  colour,  was  one  of  the  things  that 
brought  out  the  curious  cry  I  have  spoken  of,  from  the  au- 
dience. Then  he  fell  into  a  sort  of  bloodly  mist,  and  went  on 
to  the  end  groping  about,  with  no  mind  for  anything,  ex- 
cept making  his  fortune  by  staking  this  money,  and  a  faint 
dull  kind  of  love  for  the  child.  It  is  quite  impossible  to  satis- 
fy one's-self  by  saying  enough  of  this  magnificent  perform- 
ance. I  have  never  seen  him  come  near  its  finest  points, 
in  anything  else.  He  said  two  things  in  a  way  that  alone 
would  put  him  far  apart  from  all  other  actors.  One  to  his 
wife,  when  he  has  exultingly  shewn  her  the  money  and  she 
has  asked  him  how  he  got  it — "I  found  it" — and  the  other 
to  his  old  companion  and  tempter,  when  he  was  charged  by 
him  with  having  killed  that  traveller,  and  suddenly  went 
headlong  mad  and  took  him  by  the  throat  and  howled  out, 
"It  wasn't  I  who  murdered  him — it  was  'Misery!'"  And 
such  a  dress;  such  a  face;  and  above  all,  such  an  extraordi- 
nary guilty  wicked  thing  as  he  made  of  a  knotted  branch  of  a 
tree  which  was  his  walking-stick,  from  the  moment  when 
the  idea  of  the  murder  came  into  his  head!  I  could  write 
pages  about  him.  It  is  an  impression  quite  ineffaceable. 
He  got  half-boastful  of  that  walking-staff  to  himself,  and 
half-afraid  of  it;  and  didn't  know  whether  to  be  grimly 
pleased  that  it  had  the  jagged  end,  or  to  hate  it  and  be 
horrified  at  it.  He  sat  at  a  little  table  in  the  inn-yard, 
drinking  with  the  traveller;  and  this  horrible  stick  got 
between  them  like  the  Devil,  while  he  counted  on  his  fingers 
the  uses  he  could  put  the  money  to. 

At  "Orestes" 
To  Forster.  Paris,  1855. 

Nothing  have  I  ever  seen  so  weighty  and  so  ridiculous. 
If  I  had  not  already  learnt  to  tremble  at  the  sight  of  classic 


70       Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

drapery  on  the  human  form,  I  should  have  plumbed  the  ut- 
most depths  of  terrified  boredom  in  this  achievement.  The 
chorus  is  not  preserved  otherwise  than  that  bits  of  it  are 
taken  out  for  characters  to  speak.  It  is  really  so  bad  as  to 
be  almost  good.  Some  of  the  Frenchified  classical  anguish 
struck  me  as  so  unspeakably  ridiculous  that  it  puts  me  on 
the  broad  grin  as  I  write. 

Next  week  we  are  to  have  at  the  Ambigu  "Paradise  Lost," 
with  the  murder  of  Abel  and  the  Deluge.  The  wildest 
rumours  are  afloat  as  to  the  undressing  of  our  first  parents. 

At  "Paradise  Lost" 

To  Forster.  Paris,  1855. 

We  were  rung  in  (out  of  the  cafe  below  the  Ambigu)  at 
8,  and  the  play  was  over  at  half -past  1 ;  the  waits  between 
the  acts  being  very  much  longer  than  the  acts  themselves. 
The  house  was  crammed  to  excess  in  every  part,  and  the 
galleries  awful  with  Blouses,  who  again  during  the  whole  of 
the  waits,  beat  with  the  regularity  of  military  drums  the 
revolutionary  tune  of  famous  memory — Ca  Ira!  The  play 
is  a  compound  of  "Paradise  Lost"  and  Byron's  "Cain"  and 
some  of  the  controversies  between  the  archangel  and  the 
devil,  when  the  celestial  power  argues  with  the  infernal  in  con- 
versational French,  as  "Eh  bien!  Satan,  crois-tu  done  que 
notre  Seigneur  t'aurait  expose  aux  tourments  que  t'endures 
a  present  sans  avoir  prevu,  &c.  &c."  are  very  ridiculous. 
All  the  supernatural  personages  are  alarmingly  natural  (as 
theatre  nature  goes),  and  walk  about  in  the  stupidest  way. 
Which  has  occasioned  Collins  and  myself  to  institute  a  per- 
quisition whether  the  French  ever  have  shown  any  kind  of 
idea  of  the  supernatural;  and  to  decide  this  rather  in  the 
negative.  The  people  are  very  well  dressed,  and  Eve  very 
modestly.  All  Paris  and  the  provinces  had  been  ransacked 
for  a  woman  who  had  brown  hair  that  would  fall  to  the 


Miscellaneous  Letters  7i 

calfs  of  her  legs — and  she  was  found  at  last — at  the  Odeon, 
There  was  nothing  attractive  until  the  4th  act,  when  there 
was  a  pretty  good  scene  of  the  children  of  Cain  dancing  in, 
and  desecrating  a  temple  while  Abel  and  his  family  were 
hammering  hard  at  the  Ark,  outside,  in  all  the  pauses  of  the 
revel.  The  Deluge  in  the  fifth  act  was  up  to  about  the  mark 
of  a  drowning  scene  at  the  Adelphi;  but  it  had  one  new 
feature.  When  the  rain  ceased,  and  the  Ark  drove  in  on  the 
great  expanse  of  water,  then  lying  waveless  as  the  mists 
cleared  and  the  sun  broke  out,  numbers  of  bodies  drifted  up 
and  down.  These  were  all  real  men  and  boys,  each  sepa- 
rate, on  a  new  kind  of  horizontal  float.  They  looked  horrible 
and  real.  Altogether,  a  really  dull  business;  but  I  dare  say 
it  will  go  for  a  long  while. 

When  Playwriting  was  a  Game  of  Tag 

To  Forster.  Paris,  1855. 

As  I  have  no  news  I  may  as  well  tell  you  about  the  tag 
that  I  thought  so  pretty  to  the  MSmoires  du  Diable;  in 
which  piece  by  the  way,  there  is  a  most  admirable  part, 
most  admirably  played,  in  which  a  man  says  merely  "Yes" 
or  "No"  all  through  the  piece,  until  the  last  scene.  A  cer- 
tain M.  Robin  has  got  hold  of  the  papers  of  a  deceased 
lawyer,  concerning  a  certain  estate  which  has  been  swindled 
away  from  its  rightful  owner,  a  Baron's  widow,  into  other 
hands.  They  disclose  so  much  roguery  that  he  binds  them 
up  into  a  volume  lettered  Memoir es  du  Diable.  The 
knowledge  he  derives  from  these  papers  not  only  enables 
him  to  unmask  the  hypocrites  all  through  the  piece  (in  an 
excellent  manner),  but  induces  him  to  propose  to  the 
Baroness  that  if  he  restores  to  her  her  estate  and  good 
name — for  even  her  marriage  to  the  deceased  Baron  is 
denied — she  shall  give  him  her  daughter  in  marriage.  The 
daughter  herself,  on  hearing  the  offer,  accepts  it;  and  a  part 


72       Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

of  the  plot  is  her  going  to  a  masked  ball  to  which  he  goes  as 
the  Devil,  to  see  how  she  like  him  (when  she  finds,  of  course, 
that  she  likes  him  very  much).  The  country  people 
about  the  Chateau  in  dispute,  suppose  him  to  be  really  the 
Devil,  because  of  his  strange  knowledge,  and  his  strange 
comings  and  goings;  and  he,  being  with  this  girl  in  one  of  its 
old  rooms,  in  the  beginning  of  the  3d  act  shows  her  a  little 
coffer  on  the  table  with  a  bell  in  it.  "They  suppose,"  he 
tells  her,  "that  whenever  this  bell  is  rung,  I  appear  and 
obey  the  summons.  Very  ignorant,  isn't  it.'*  But,  if  you 
ever  want  me  particularly — very  particularly — ring  the  little 
bell  and  try."  The  plot  proceeds  to  its  development.  The 
wrongdoers  are  exposed;  and  the  missing  document,  prov- 
ing the  marriage,  is  found;  everything  is  finished;  they  are 
all  on  the  stage;  and  M.  Robin  hands  'he  paper  to  the 
Baroness.  "You  are  reinstated  in  your  rights,  Madame; 
you  are  happy;  I  will  not  hold  you  to  a  compact  made  when 
you  didn't  know  me;  I  release  you  and  your  fair  daughter; 
the  pleasure  of  doing  what  I  have  done  is  my  sufficient  re- 
ward; I  kiss  your  hand  and  take  my  leave.  Farewell!" 
He  backs  himself  courteously  out ;  the  piece  seems  concluded, 
everybody  wonders,  the  girl  (little  Mdlle.  Luther)  stands 
amazed;  when  she  suddenly  remembers  the  little  bell.  In 
the  prettiest  way  possible,  she  runs  to  the  coffer  on  the 
table,  takes  out  the  little  bell,  rings  it,  and  he  comes  rushing 
back  and  folds  her  to  his  heart.  I  never  saw  a  prettier  thing 
in  my  life.  It  made  me  laugh  in  that  most  delightful  of 
ways  with  the  tears  in  my  eyes;  so  that  I  can  never  forget  it, 
and  must  go  and  see  it  again. 

RisTORi  AS  "Medea" 

To  Forster.  Paris,  1855. 

In  the  day  entertainments  and  little  melodrama  theatres 
of  Italy,  I  have  seen  the  same  thing  fifty  times,  only  not  at 
once  so  conventional  and  so  exaggerated.    The  papers  have 


Miscellaneous  Letters  73 

all  been  in  fits  respecting  the  sublimity  of  the  performance, 
and  the  genuineness  of  the  applause — particularly  of  the 
bouquets;  which  were  thrown  on  at  the  most  preposterous 
times  in  the  midst  of  agonizing  scenes,  so  that  the  characters 
had  to  pick  their  way  among  them,  and  a  certain  stout  gentle- 
man who  played  King  Creon  was  obliged  to  keep  a  wary 
eye  all  night  on  the  proscenium  boxes,  and  dodge  them 
as  they  came  down.  How  Scribe  who  dined  here  next  day 
(and  who  follows  on  the  Ristori  side,  being  offended,  as  every- 
body has  been,  by  the  insolence  of  Rachel),  could  not  resist 
the  temptation  of  telling  us  that,  going  round  at  the  end 
of  the  first  act  to  offer  his  congratulations,  he  met  all  the 
bouquets  coming  back  in  men's  arms  to  be  thrown  on  again 
in  the  second  act,  .  .  .  By  the  bye,  I  see  a  fine  actor 
lost  in  Scribe,  In  all  his  pieces  he  has  everything  done  in  his 
own  way;  and  on  that  same  night  he  was  showing  what 
Rachel  did  not  do,  and  wouldn't  do,  in  the  last  scene  of 
Adrienne  Lecouvreur,  with  extraordinary  force  and  intens- 
ity. 

Long  before  "Secret  Service" 

To  Mark  Lemon.  Paris,  1856. 

In  a  piece  at  the  Ambigu,  called  the  "Rentree  a  Paris,"  a 
mere  scene  in  honour  of  the  return  of  the  troops  from  the 
Crimea  the  other  day,  there  is  a  novelty  which  I  think  it 
worth  letting  you  know  of,  as  it  is  easily  available  either 
for  a  serious  or  a  comic  interest — the  introduction  of  a 
supposed  electric  telegraph.  The  scene  is  the  railway  term- 
inus at  Paris,  with  the  electric  telegraph-office  on  the 
prompt  side,  and  the  clerks  with  their  backs  to  the  audience 
— much  more  real  than  if  they  were,  as  they  infallibly  would 
be,  staring  about  the  house — working  the  needles;  and  the 
little  bell  perpetually  ringing.  There  are  assembled  to 
greet  the  soldiers,  all  the  easily  and  naturally  imagined 
elements  of  interest — old  veteran  fathers,  young  children, 


74       Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

agonized  mothers,  sisters  and  brothers,  girl  lovers — each 
impatient  to  know  of  his  or  her  own  object  of  solicitude. 
Enter  to  these  a  certain  marquis,  full  of  sympathy  for  all, 
who  says:  "My  friends,  I  am  one  of  you.  My  brother  has 
no  commission  yet.  He  is  a  common  soldier.  I  wait  for 
him  as  well  as  all  brothers  and  sisters  here  wait  for  their 
brothers.  Tell  me  whom  you  are  expecting."  Then  they 
all  tell  him.  Then  he  goes  into  the  telegraph-office,  and 
sends  a  message  down  the  line  to  know  how  long  the  troops 
will  be.  Bell  rings.  Answer  handed  out  on  slip  of  paper. 
"  Delay  on  the  line.  Troops  will  not  arrive  for  a  quarter  of 
an  hour."  General  disappointment.  "But  w^e  have  this 
brave  electric  telegraph,  my  friends,"  says  the  marquis. 
"Give  me  your  little  messages,  and  I'll  send  them  off." 
General  rush  round  the  marquis.  Exclamations:  "How's 
Henri?"  "My  love  to  Georges";  "Has  Guillaume  forgotten 
EUse?"  "Is  my  son  wounded?"  "Is  my  brother  pro- 
moted?" etc.,  etc.  Marquis  composes  tumult.  Sends  mes- 
sage— such  a  regiment,  such  a  company — "Elise's  love  to 
Georges."  Little  bell  rings,  slip  of  paper  handed  out — 
"Georges  in  ten  minutes  will  embrace  his  Elise.  Sends  her 
a  thousand  kisses."  Marquis  sends  message — such  a  regi- 
ment, such  a  company — "Is  my  son  wounded?"  Little 
bell  rings.  Slip  of  paper  handed  out — "No.  He  has  not 
yet  upon  him  those  marks  of  bravery  in  the  glorious  service 
of  his  country  which  his  dear  old  father  bears"  (father  being 
lamed  and  invalided).  Last  of  all  the  widowed  mother. 
Marquis  sends  message — such  a  regiment,  such  a  company 
— "Is  my  only  son  safe?"  Little  bell  rings.  Slip  of  paper 
handed  out — "He  was  first  upon  the  heights  of  Alma." 
General  cheer.  Bell  rings  again,  another  slip  of  paper 
handed  out.  "He  was  made  a  sergeant  at  Inkermann." 
Another  cheer.  Bell  rings  again,  another  slip  of  paper 
handed  out.  "  He  was  made  colour-sergeant  at  Sebastopol." 
Another  cheer.     Bell  rings  again,  another  slip  of  paper 


Miscellaneous  Letters  75 

handed  out.  "He  was  the  first  man  who  leaped  with  the 
French  banner  on  the  Malakhoff  tower."  Tremendous 
cheer.  Bell  rings  again,  another  slip  of  paper  handed  out. 
"But  he  was  struck  down  there  by  a  musket-ball,  and — 
Troops  have  proceeded.  Will  arrive  in  half  a  minute  after 
this."  Mother  abandons  all  hope;  general  commiseration; 
troops  rush  in,  down  a  platform;  son  only  wounded,  and 
embraces  her. 

As  I  have  said,  and  as  you  will  see,  this  is  available  for  any 
purpose.  But  done  with  equal  distinction  and  rapidity, 
it  is  a  tremendous  effect,  and  got  by  the  simplest  means  in 
the  world.  There  is  nothing  in  the  piece,  but  it  was  im- 
possible not  to  be  moved  and  excited  by  the  telegraph  part 
of  it. 

A  Contretemps  at  Covent  Garden 
To  Mary  Boyle.  Office  of  "All  the  Year  Round,"  1860. 

I  pass  my  time  here  (I  am  staying  here  alone)  in  working, 
taking  physic,  and  taking  a  stall  at  a  theatre  every  night. 
On  Boxing  Night  I  was  at  Covent  Garden.  A  dull  panto- 
mime was  "worked"  (as  we  say)  better  than  I  ever  saw  a 
heavy  piece  worked  on  a  first  night,  until  suddenly  and 
without  a  moment's  warning,  every  scene  on  that  immense 
stage  fell  over  on  its  face,  and  disclosed  chaos  by  gaslight 
behind!  There  never  was  such  a  business;  about  sixty 
people  who  were  on  the  stage  being  extinguished  in  the  most 
remarkable  manner.  Not  a  soul  was  hurt.  In  the  uproar, 
some  moon-calf  rescued  a  porter  pot,  six  feet  high  (out  of 
which  the  clown  had  been  drinking  when  the  accident 
happened),  and  stood  it  on  the  cushion  of  the  lowest  pro- 
scenium box,  P.  S.,  beside  a  lady  and  gentleman,  who  were 
dreadfully  ashamed  of  it.  The  moment  the  house  knew  that 
nobody  was  injured,  they  directed  their  whole  attention  to 
this  gigantic  porter  pot  in  its  genteel  position  (the  lady  and 
gentleman  trying  to  hide  behind  it),  and  roared  with  laugh- 


76       Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

ter.  When  a  modest  footman  came  from  behind  the  curtain 
to  clear  it,  and  took  it  up  in  his  arms  Hke  a  Brobdingnagian 
baby  we  all  laughed  more  than  ever  we  had  laughed  in  our 
lives.    I  don't  know  why. 

We  have  had  a  fire  here,  but  our  people  put  it  out  before 
the  parish-engine  arrived,  like  a  drivelling  perambulator, 
with  the  beadle  in  it,  like  an  imbecile  baby.  Popular  opin- 
ion, disappointed  in  the  fire  having  been  put  out,  snow- 
balled the  beadle.     God  bless  it! 

Over  the  way  at  the  Lyceum,  there  is  a  very  fair  Christ- 
mas piece,  with  one  or  two  uncommonly  well-done  nigger 
songs — one  remarkably  gay  and  mad,  done  in  the  finale  to 
a  scene.  Also  a  very  nice  transformation,  though  I  don't 
know  what  it  means. 

The  poor  actors  waylay  me  in  Bow  Street  to  represent 
their  necessities ;  and  I  often  see  one  cut  down  a  court  when 
he  beholds  me  coming,  cut  round  Drury  Lane  to  face  me, 
and  come  up  towards  me  near  this  door  in  the  freshest  and 
most  accidental  way,  as  if  I  was  the  last  person  he  expected 
to  see  on  the  surface  of  this  globe.  The  other  day  there  thus 
appeared  before  me  (simultaneously  with  a  scent  of  rum  in 
the  air)  one  aged  and  greasy  man,  with  a  pair  of  pumps 
under  his  arm.  He  said  he  thought  if  he  could  get  down  to 
somewhere  (I  think  it  was  Newcastle),  he  would  get  "taken 
on"  as  Pantaloon,  the  existing  Pantaloon  being  "a  stick, 
sir — a  mere  muff."  I  observed  that  I  was  sorry  times  were 
so  bad  with  him.  '*Mr.  Dickens,  you  know  our  profession, 
sir — no  one  knows  it  better,  sir — there  is  no  right  feeling  in 
it.  I  was  Harlequin  on  your  own  circuit,  sir,  for  five-and- 
thirty  years,  and  was  displaced  by  a  boy,  sir! — a  boy!" 

An  Old  Problem 

To  Bulwer-Lytton.  Gad's  Hill  1862. 

I  have  considered  your  questions,  and  here  follow  my 
replies. 


Miscellaneous  Letters  77 

1.  I  think  you  undoubtedly  have  the  right  to  forbid  the 
turning  of  your  play  into  an  opera. 

2.  I  do  not  think  the  production  of  such  an  opera  in  the 
slightest  degree  likely  to  injure  the  play  or  to  render  it  a 
less  valuable  property  than  it  is  now.  If  it  could  have  any 
effect  on  so  standard  and  popular  a  work  as  "The  Lady  of 
Lyons,"  the  effect  would,  in  my  judgment,  be  beneficial. 
But  I  believe  the  play  to  be  high  above  any  such  influence. 

3.  Assuming  you  do  consent  to  the  adaptation,  in  a 
desire  to  oblige  Oxenford,  I  would  not  recommend  your 
asking  any  pecuniary  compensation.  This  for  two  reasons: 
firstly,  because  the  compensation  could  only  be  small  at  the 
best;  secondly,  because  your  taking  it  would  associate  you 
(unreasonably,  but  not  the  less  assuredly)  with  the  opera. 

The  only  objection  I  descry  is  purely  one  of  feeling. 
Pauline  trotting  about  in  front  of  the  float,  invoking  the 
orchestra  with  a  limp  pocket-handkerchief,  is  a  notion  that 
makes  goose-flesh  of  my  back.  Also  a  yelping  tenor  going 
away  to  the  wars  in  a  scena  half-an-hour  long  is  painful  to 
contemplate.  Damas,  too,  as  a  bass,  with  a  grizzled  bald 
head,  blatantly  bellowing  about 

Years  long  ago. 

When  the  sound  of  the  drum 
First  made  his  blood  glow 

With  a  rum  ti  tum  tum — 

rather  sticks  in  my  throat;  but  there  really  seems  to  me  to 
be  no  other  objections  if  you  can  get  over  this. 

On  Historical  Plays 
To    Charles    Fechier.  Paris,  1862. 

I  have  read  "The  White  Rose"  attentively,  and  think  it 
an  extremely  good  play.  It  is  vigorously  written  with  a 
great  knowledge  of  the  stage,  and  presents  many  striking 
situations.  I  think  the  close  particularly  fine,  impressive, 
bold,  and  new. 


78       Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

But  I  greatly  doubt  the  expediency  of  your  doing  any 
historical  play  early  in  your  management.  By  the  words 
"historical  play,"  I  mean  a  play  founded  on  any  incident  in 
English  history.  Our  public  are  accustomed  to  associate 
historical  plays  \\'ith  Shakespeare.  In  any  other  hands,  I 
believe  they  care  very  little  for  crowns  and  dukedoms. 
What  you  want  is  something  with  an  interest  of  a  more 
domestic  and  general  nature — an  interest  as  romantic  as  you 
please,  but  having  a  more  general  and  wider  response  than  a 
disputed  succession  to  the  throne  can  have  for  Englishmen 
at  this  time  of  day.  Such  interest  culminated  in  the  last 
Stuart,  and  has  worn  itself  out.  It  would  be  uphill  work  to 
evoke  an  interest  in  Perkin  Warbeck. 

I  do  not  doubt  the  play's  being  well  received,  but  my  fear 
is  that  these  people  would  be  looked  upon  as  mere  abstrac- 
tions and  would  have  but  a  cold  welcome  in  consequence 
and  would  not  lay  hold  of  your  audience.  Now,  when  you 
have  laid  hold  of  your  audience  and  have  accustomed  them 
to  your  theatre,  you  may  produce  "The  White  Rose,"  with 
far  greater  justice  to  the  author,  and  to  the  manager  also. 
Wait.  Feel  your  way.  Perkin  Warbeck  is  too  far  removed 
from  analogy  with  the  sympathies  and  lives  of  the  people 
for  a  beginning . 

The  Playreader 

To  Forster.  London,  1864- 

I  have  been  cautioning  Fechter  about  the  play  whereof 
he  gave  the  plot  and  scenes  to  B;  and  out  of  which  I  have 
struck  some  enormities,  my  account  of  which  will  (I  think) 
amuse  you.  It  has  one  of  the  best  first  acts  I  ever  saw;  but 
if  he  can  do  much  with  the  last  two,  not  to  say  three,  there 
are  resources  in  his  art  that  /  know  nothing  about.  When 
I  went  over  the  play  this  day  week,  he  was  at  least  20  min- 
utes, in  a  boat,  in  the  last  scene,  discussing  with  another 
gentleman  (also  in  the  boat)  whether  he  should  kill  him  or 


Miscellaneous  Letters  79 

not;  after  which  the  gentleman  dived  overboard  and  swam 
for  it.  Also,  in  the  most  important  and  dangerous  parts  of 
the  play,  there  was  a  young  person  of  the  name  of  Pickles 
who  was  constantly  being  mentioned  by  name,  in  conjunc- 
tion with  the  powers  of  light  or  darkness;  as  "  Great  Heaven ! 
Pickles?"— "By  Hell,  'tis  Pickles!"— "Pickles?  a  thousand 
Devils ! "— "  Distraction !     Pickles? " 

Again  the  Playreader 

To  Charles  Fechter,  Gad's  Hilh  1866, 

This  morning  I  received  the  play  to  the  end  of  the  tele- 
graph scene,  and  I  have  since  read  it  twice. 

I  clearly  see  the  ground  of  Mr.  Boucicault's  two  objec- 
tions; but  I  do  not  see  their  force. 

First,  as  to  the  writing.  If  the  characters  did  not  speak 
in  a  terse  and  homely  way,  their  idea  and  language  would  be 
inconsistent  with  their  dress  and  station,  and  they  would 
lose,  as  characters,  before  the  audience.  The  dialogue 
seems  to  be  exactly  what  is  wanted.  Its  simplicity  (par- 
ticularly in  Mr.  Boucicault's  part)  is  often  very  effective; 
and  throughout  there  is  an  honest,  straight-to-the-purpose 
ruggedness  in  it,  like  the  real  life  and  the  real  people. 

Secondly,  as  to  the  absence  of  the  comic  element.  I 
really  do  not  see  how  more  of  it  could  be  got  into  the  story, 
and  I  think  Mr.  Boucicault  underrates  the  pleasant  effect  of 
his  own  part.  The  very  notion  of  a  sailor,  whose  life  is  not 
among  those  little  courts  and  streets,  and  whose  business 
does  not  lie  with  the  monotonous  machinery,  but  with  the 
four  wild  winds,  is  a  relief  to  me  in  reading  the  play.  I  am 
quite  confident  of  its  being  an  immense  relief  to  the  audience 
when  they  see  the  sailor  before  them,  with  an  entirely  differ- 
ent bearing,  action,  dress,  complexion  even,  from  the  rest 
of  the  men.  I  would  make  him  the  freshest  and  airiest  sailor 
that  ever  was  seen;  and  through  him  I  can  distinctly  see  my 
way  out  of  "the  Black  Country"  into  clearer  air.    (I  speak 


8o       Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

as  one  of  the  audience,  mind.)  I  should  like  something  of 
this  contrast  to  be  expressed  in  the  dialogue  between  the 
sailor  and  the  Jew,  in  the  second  scene  of  the  second  act. 
Again,  I  feel  Widdicomb's  part  (which  is  charming,  and 
ought  to  make  the  whole  house  cry)  most  agreeable  and 
welcome,  much  better  than  any  amount  in  such  a  story,  of 
mere  comicality. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  say  that  the  play  is  done  with  a  mas- 
ter's hand.  Its  closeness  and  movement  are  quite  surprising. 
Its  construction  is  admirable.  I  have  the  strongest  belief 
in  its  making  a  great  success.  But  I  must  add  this  proviso : 
I  never  saw  a  play  so  dangerously  depending  in  critical 
places  on  strict  natural  propriety  in  the  manner  and  perfec- 
tion in  the  shaping  of  the  small  parts.  Those  small  parts 
cannot  take  the  play  up,  but  they  can  let  it  down.  I  would 
not  leave  a  hair  on  the  head  of  one  of  them  to  the  chance  of 
the  first  night,  but  I  would  see,  to  the  minutest  particular, 
the  make-up  of  every  one  of  them  at  a  night  rehearsal. 

Of  course  you  are  free  to  show  this  note  to  Mr.  Bouci- 
cault,  and  I  suppose  you  will  do  so;  let  me  throw  out  this 
suggestion  to  him  and  you.  Might  it  not  ease  the  way  with 
the  Lord  Chamberlain's  Office,  and  still  more  with  the 
audience,  when  there  are  Manchester  champions  in  it,  if 
instead  of  "Manchester"  you  used  a  fictitious  name? 
When  I  did  "Hard  Times"  I  called  the  scene  CoketowTi. 
Everybody  knew  what  was  meant,  but  every  cotton-spin 
ning  town  said  it  was  the  other  cotton-spinning  town. 


The  Stage  in  Dickens's  Novels 


8l 


THE  STAGE   IN  DICKENS'S 
NOVELS 

Astley's 

WE  never  see  any  very  large,  staring,  black  Roman 
capitals,  in  a  book,  or  shop-window,  or  placarded 
on  a  wall,  without  their  immediately  recalling  to  our  mind* 
an  indistinct  and  confused  recollection  of  the  time  when  we 
were  first  initiated  in  the  mysteries  of  the  alphabet.  We 
almost  fancy  we  see  the  pin's  point  following  the  letter,  to 
impress  its  form  more  strongly  on  our  bewildered  imagina- 
tion; and  wince  involuntarily,  as  we  remember  the  hard 
knuckles  with  which  the  reverend  old  lady  who  instilled 
into  our  mind  the  first  principles  of  education  for  ninepence 
per  week,  or  ten  and  sixpence  per  quarter,  was  wont  to  poke 
our  juvenile  head  occasionally,  by  way  of  adjusting  the 
confusion  of  ideas  in  which  we  were  generally  involved. 
The  same  kind  of  feeling  pursues  us  in  many  other  instances, 
but  there  is  no  place  which  recalls  so  strongly  our  recollec- 
tions of  childhood  as  Astley's.  It  was  not  a  "Royal  Am- 
phitheatre" in  those  days,  nor  had  Ducrow  arisen  to  shed 
the  light  of  classic  taste  and  portable  gas  over  the  sawdust  of 
the  circus;  but  the  whole  character  of  the  place  was  the 
same,  the  pieces  were  the  same,  the  clown's  jokes  were  the 
same,  the  riding-masters  were  equally  grand,  the  comic 
performers  equally  witty,  the  tragedians  equally  hoarse, 
and  the  "  highly -trained  chargers"  equally  spirited.  Astley's 
has  altered  for  the  better — we  have  changed  for  the  worse. 

83 


84       Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

Our  histrionic  taste  is  gone,  and  with  shame  we  confess,  that 
we  are  far  more  delighted  and  amused  with  the  audience, 
than  with  the  pageantry  we  once  so  highly  appreciated. 

We  like  to  watch  a  regular  Astley's  party  in  the  Easter  or 
Midsummer  holidays — pa  and  ma,  and  nine  or  ten  children, 
varying  from  five  foot  six  to  two  foot  eleven :  from  fourteen 
years  of  age  to  four.  We  had  just  taken  our  seat  in  one  of 
the  boxes,  in  the  centre  of  the  house,  the  other  night,  when 
the  next  was  occupied  by  just  such  a  party  as  we  should 
have  attempted  to  describe,  had  we  depicted  our  beau  ideal 
of  a  group  of  Astley's  visitors. 

First  of  all,  there  came  three  little  boys  and  a  little  girl, 
who,  in  pursuance  of  pa's  directions,  issued  in  a  very  audible 
voice  from  the  box-door,  occupied  the  front  row;  then  two 
more  little  girls  were  ushered  in  by  a  young  lady,  evidently 
the  governess.  Then  came  three  more  little  boys,  dressed 
like  the  first,  in  blue  jackets  and  trousers,  with  lay-down 
shirt-collars:  then  a  child  in  a  braided  frock,  and  high  state 
of  astonishment,  with  very  large  round  eyes,  opened  to  their 
utmost  width,  was  lifted  over  the  seats — a  process  which 
occasioned  a  considerable  display  of  little  pink  legs — then 
came  ma  and  pa,  and  then  the  eldest  son,  a  boy  of  fourteen 
years  old,  who  was  evidently  trying  to  look  as  if  he  did  not 
belong  to  the  family. 

The  first  five  minutes  were  occupied  in  taking  the  shawls 
off  the  little  girls,  and  adjusting  the  bows  which  ornamented 
their  hair;  then  it  was  providentially  discovered  that  one  of 
the  little  boys  was  seated  behind  a  pillar  and  could  not  see, 
so  the  governess  was  stuck  behind  the  pillar,  and  the  boy 
lifted  into  her  place.  Then  pa  drilled  the  boys,  and  directed 
the  stowing  away  of  their  pocket-handkerchiefs,  and  ma 
having  first  nodded  and  winked  to  the  governess  to  pull  the 
girls'  frocks  a  little  more  off  their  shoulders,  stood  up  to 
review  the  little  troop — an  inspection  which  appeared  to 
terminate  much  to  her  own  satisfaction,  for  she  looked  with 


The  Stage  in  Dickens's  Novels      85 

a  complacent  air  at  pa,  who  was  standing  up  at  the  further 
end  of  the  seat.  Pa  returned  the  glance,  and  blew  his  nose 
very  emphatically;  and  the  poor  governess  peeped  out  from 
behind  the  pillar,  and  timidly  tried  to  catch  ma's  eye,  with  a 
look  expressive  of  her  high  admiration  of  the  whole  family. 
Then  two  of  the  little  boys  who  had  been  discussing  the 
point  whether  Astley's  was  more  than  twice  as  large  as 
Drury  Lane,  agreed  to  refer  it  to  "George"  for  his  decision; 
at  which  "George,"  who  was  no  other  than  the  young 
gentleman  before  noticed,  waxed  indignant,  and  remon- 
strated in  no  very  gentle  terms  on  the  gross  impropriety  of 
having  his  name  repeated  in  so  loud  a  voice  at  a  public 
place,  on  which  all  the  children  laughed  very  heartily,  and 
one  of  the  little  boys  wound  up  by  expressing  his  opinion, 
that  "George  began  to  think  himself  quite  a  man  now," 
whereupon  both  pa  and  ma  laughed  too;  and  George  (who 
carried  a  dress  cane  and  was  cultivating  whiskers)  muttered 
that  "William  always  was  encouraged  in  his  impertinence"; 
and  assumed  a  look  of  profound  contempt,  which  lasted  the 
whole  evening. 

The  play  began,  and  the  interest  of  the  little  boys  knew  no 
bounds.  Pa  was  clearly  interested  too,  although  he  very 
unsuccessfully  endeavoured  to  look  as  if  he  wasn't.  As  for 
ma,  she  was  perfectly  overcome  by  the  drollery  of  the  prin- 
cipal comedian,  and  laughed  till  every  one  of  the  immense 
bows  on  her  ample  cap  trembled,  at  which  the  governess 
peeped  out  from  behind  the  pillar  again,  and  whenever  she 
could  catch  ma's  eye,  put  her  handkerchief  to  her  mouth, 
and  appeared,  as  in  duty  bound,  to  be  in  convulsions  of 
laughter  also.  Then  when  the  man  in  the  splendid  armour 
vowed  to  rescue  the  lady  or  perish  in  the  attempt,  the  little 
boys  applauded  vehemently,  especially  one  little  fellow  w^ho 
was  apparently  on  a  visit  to  the  family,  and  had  been  carry- 
ing on  a  child's  flirtation,  the  whole  evening,  with  a  small 
coquette  of  twelve  years  old,  who  looked  like  a  model  of 


86       Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

her  mamma  on  a  reduced  scale;  and  who,  in  common  with 
the  other  Httle  girls  (who,  generally  speaking,  have  even 
more  coquettishness  about  them  than  much  older  ones), 
looked  very  properly  shocked,  when  the  knight's  squire 
kissed  the  princess's  confidential  chambermaid. 

When  the  scenes  in  the  circle  commenced,  the  children 
were  more  delighted  than  ever;  and  the  wish  to  see  what  was 
going  forward,  completely  conquering  pa's  dignity,  he  stood 
up  in  the  box,  and  applauded  as  loudly  as  any  of  them. 
Between  each  feat  of  horsemanship,  the  governess  leant 
across  to  ma,  and  retailed  the  clever  remarks  of  the  children 
on  that  which  had  preceded :  and  ma,  in  the  openness  of  her 
heart,  offered  the  governess  an  acidulated  drop,  and  the 
governess,  gratified  to  be  taken  notice  of,  retired  behind 
her  pillar  again  with  a  brighter  countenance:  and  the  whole 
party  seemed  quite  happy,  except  the  exquisite  in  the  back 
of  the  box,  who,  being  too  grand  to  take  any  interest  in  the 
children,  and  too  insignificant  to  be  taken  notice  of  by  any- 
body else,  occupied  himself,  from  time  to  time,  in  rubbing 
the  place  where  the  whiskers  ought  to  be,  and  was  com- 
pletely alone  in  his  glory. 

We  defy  any  one  who  has  been  to  Astley's  two  or  three 
times,  and  is  consequently  capable  of  appreciating  the  per- 
severance with  which  precisely  the  same  jokes  are  repeated 
night  after  night,  and  season  after  season,  not  to  be  amused 
with  one  part  of  the  performances  at  least — we  mean  the 
scenes  in  the  circle.  For  ourself,  we  know  that  when  the 
hoop,  composed  of  jets  of  gas,  is  let  down,  the  curtain  drawn 
up  for  the  convenience  of  the  half-price  on  their  ejectment 
from  the  ring,  the  orange-peel  cleared  away,  and  the  saw- 
dust shaken,  with  mathematical  precision,  into  a  complete 
circle,  we  feel  as  much  enlivened  as  the  youngest  child 
present;  and  actually  join  in  the  laugh  which  follows  the 
clown's  shrill  shout  of  "Here  we  are!"  just  for  old  acquaint- 
ance' sake.    Nor  can  we  quite  divest  ourself  of  our  old  feel- 


The  Stage  in  Dickens's  Novels      87 

ing  of  reverence  for  the  riding-master,  who  follows  the  clown 
with  a  long  whip  in  his  hand,  and  bows  to  the  audience  with 
graceful  dignity.  He  is  none  of  your  second-rate  riding- 
masters  in  nankeen  dressing-gowns,  with  brown  frogs,  but 
the  regular  gentleman-attendant  on  the  principal  riders, 
who  always  wears  a  military  uniform  with  a  table-cloth 
inside  the  breast  of  the  coat,  in  which  costume  he  forcibly 
reminds  one  of  a  fowl  trussed  for  roasting.  He  is — but  why 
should  we  attempt  to  describe  that  of  which  no  description 
can  convey  an  adequate  idea?  Everybody  knows  the  man, 
and  everybody  remembers  his  polished  boots,  his  graceful 
demeanour,  stiff,  as  some  misjudging  persons  have  in  their 
jealousy  considered  it,  and  the  splendid  head  of  black 
hair,  parted  high  on  the  forehead,  to  impart  to  the  counte- 
nance an  appearance  of  deep  thought  and  poetic  melancholy. 
His  soft  and  pleasing  voice,  too,  is  in  perfect  unison  with  his 
noble  bearing,  as  he  humours  the  clown  by  indulging  in  a 
little  badinage;  and  the  striking  recollection  of  his  own 
dignity,  with  which  he  exclaims,  "Now,  sir,  if  you  please, 
inquire  for  Miss  Woolford,  sir,"  can  never  be  forgotten. 
The  graceful  air,  too,  with  which  he  introduces  Miss  Wool- 
ford  into  the  arena,  and,  after  assisting  her  to  the  saddle, 
follows  her  fairy  courser  round  the  circle,  can  never  fail  to 
create  a  deep  impression  in  the  bosom  of  every  female 
servant  present. 

When  Miss  Woolford,  and  the  horse  and  the  orchestra,  all 
stop  together  to  take  breath  he  urbanely  takes  part  in  some 
such  dialogue  as  the  following  (commenced  by  the  clown) : 
"I  say,  sir!" — "Well,  sir?"  (it's  always  conducted  in  the 
politest  manner) — "Did  you  ever  happen  to  hear  I  was  in 
the  army,  sir?" — "No,  sir." — "Oh,  yes,  sir — I  can  go 
through  my  exercise,  sir." — "Indeed,  sir!" — "Shall  I  do  it 
now,  sir?" — "If  you  please,  sir;  come,  sir — make  haste" 
(a  cut  with  the  long  whip,  and  "Ha'  done  now — I  don't 
like  it,"  from  the  clown).    Here  the  clown  throws  himself  on 


88       Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

the  ground,  and  goes  through  a  variety  of  gymnastic  con- 
vulsions, doubling  himself  up,  and  untying  himself  again, 
and  making  himself  look  very  like  a  man  in  the  most  hope- 
less extreme  of  human  agony,  to  the  vociferous  delight  of  the 
gallery,  until  he  is  interrupted  by  a  second  cut  from  the 
long  whip,  and  a  request  to  see  "what  Miss  Woolford's 
stopping  for?"  On  which,  to  the  inexpressible  mirth  of  the 
gallery,  he  exclaims,  "Now,  Miss  Woolford,  what  can  I 
come  for  to  go,  for  to  fetch,  for  to  bring,  for  to  carry,  for  to 
do  for  you,  ma'am?"  On  the  lady's  announcing  with  a 
sweet  smile  that  she  wants  the  two  flags,  they  are,  with 
sundry  grimaces,  procured  and  handed  up;  the  clown 
facetiously  observing  after  the  performance  of  the  latter 
ceremony — "He  he,  oh!  I  say,  sir.  Miss  Woolford  knows 
me;  she  smiled  at  me."  Another  cut  from  the  whip,  a  burst 
from  the  orchestra,  a  start  from  the  horse,  and  round  goes 
Miss  Woolford  again  on  her  graceful  performance,  to  the 
delight  of  every  member  of  the  audience,  young  or  old.  The 
next  pause  affords  an  opportunity  for  similar  witticisms,  the 
only  additional  fun  being  that  of  the  clown  making  ludicrous 
grimaces  at  the  riding-master  every  time  his  back  is  turned; 
and  finally  quitting  the  circle  by  jumping  over  his  head, 
having  previously  directed  his  attention  another  way. 

Did  any  of  our  readers  ever  notice  the  class  of  people,  who 
hang  about  the  stage-doors  of  our  minor  theatres  in  the 
day-time?  You  will  rarely  pass  one  of  these  entrances 
without  seeing  a  group  of  three  or  four  men  conversing  on 
the  pavement,  with  an  indescribable  public-house-parlour 
swagger,  and  a  kind  of  conscious  air  peculiar  to  people  of 
this  description.  They  always  seem  to  think  they  are  ex- 
hibiting; the  lamps  are  ever  before  them.  That  young 
fellow  in  the  faded  brown  coat,  and  very  full  light  green 
trousers,  pulls  down  the  wristbands  of  his  check  shirt,  as 
ostentatiously  as  if  it  were  of  the  finest  linen,  and  cocks  the 
white  hat  of  the  summer-before-last  as  knowingly  over  his 


The  Stage  in  Dickens's  Novels       89 

right  eye,  as  if  it  were  a  purchase  of  yesterday.  Look  at  the 
dirty  white  BerUn  gloves,  and  the  cheap  silk  handkerchief 
stuck  in  the  bosom  of  his  threadbare  coat.  Is  it  possible  to 
see  him  for  an  instant,  and  not  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
he  is  the  walking  gentleman  who  wears  a  blue  surtout,  clean 
collar,  and  white  trousers,  for  half  an  hour,  and  then  shrinks 
into  his  worn-out  scanty  clothes:  who  has  to  boast  night 
after  night  of  his  splendid  fortune,  with  the  painful  con- 
sciousness of  a  pound  a  week  and  his  boots  to  find;  to  talk 
of  his  father's  mansion  in  the  country,  with  a  dreary  recol- 
lection of  his  own  two-pair  back,  in  the  New  Cut;  and  to  be 
envied  and  flattered  as  the  favoured  lover  of  a  rich  heiress, 
remembering  all  the  while  that  the  ex-dancer  at  home  is  in 
the  family  way,  and  out  of  an  engagement? 

Next  to  him,  perhaps,  you  will  see  a  thin  pale  man,  with  a 
very  long  face,  in  a  suit  of  shining  black,  thoughtfully  knock- 
ing that  part  of  his  boot  which  once  had  a  heel,  with  an  ash 
stick.  He  is  the  man  who  does  the  heavy  busmess,  such  as 
prosy  fathers,  virtuous  servants,  curates,  landlords,  and  so 
forth. 

By  the  way,  talking  of  fathers,  w^e  should  very  much  like 
to  see  some  piece  in  which  all  the  dramatis  personse  were 
orphans.  Fathers  are  invariably  great  nuisances  on  the 
stage,  and  always  have  to  give  the  hero  or  heroine  a  long 
explanation  of  what  was  done  before  the  curtain  rose,  usu- 
ally commencing  with  "It  is  now  nineteen  years,  my  dear 
child,  since  your  blessed  mother  (here  the  old  villain's  voice 
falters)  confided  you  to  my  charge.  You  were  then  an 
infant,"  &c.,  &c.  Or  else  they  have  to  discover,  all  of  a 
sudden,  that  somebody  whom  they  have  been  in  constant 
communication  with,  during  three  long  acts,  without  the 
slightest  supicion,  is  their  own  child,  in  which  case  they 
exclaim,  "Ah!  what  do  I  see?  This  bracelet!  That  smile! 
These  documents !  Those  eyes !  Can  I  believe  my  senses? — 
It  must  be!— Yes— it  is,  it  is  my  child!"— "My  father!" 


90       Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

exclaims  the  child ;  and  they  fall  into  each  other's  arms,  and 
look  over  each  other's  shoulders,  and  the  audience  give 
three  rounds  of  applause. 

To  return  from  this  digression,  we  were  about  to  say  that 
these  are  the  sort  of  people  whom  you  see  talking,  and 
attitudinising,  outside  the  stage-doors  of  our  minor  theatres. 
At  Astley's  they  are  always  more  numerous  than  at  any 
other  place.  There  is  generally  a  groom  or  two,  sitting  on 
the  window-sill,  and  two  or  three  dirty  shabby-genteel  men 
in  checked  neckerchiefs,  and  sallow  linen,  lounging  about, 
and  carrying,  perhaps,  under  one  arm,  a  pair  of  stage  shoes 
badly  wrapped  up  in  a  piece  of  old  newspaper.  Some  years 
ago  we  used  to  stand  looking,  open-mouthed,  at  these  men, 
with  a  feeling  of  mysterious  curiosity,  the  very  recollection 
of  which  provokes  a  smile  at  the  moment  we  are  writing. 
We  could  not  believe  that  the  beings  of  light  and  elegance, 
in  milk-white  tunics,  salmon-coloured  legs,  and  blue  scarfs, 
who  flitted  on  sleek  cream-coloured  horses  before  our  eyes 
at  night,  with  all  the  aid  of  lights,  music,  and  artificial 
flowers,  could  be  the  pale,  dissipated-looking  creatures  we 
beheld  by  day. 

We  can  hardly  believe  it  now.  Of  the  lower  class  of  actors 
we  have  seen  something,  and  it  requires  no  great  exercise 
of  imagination  to  identify  the  walking  gentleman  with  the 
"dirty  swell,"  the  comic  singer  with  the  public-house 
chairman,  or  the  leading  tragedian  with  drunkenness  and 
distress;  but  these  other  men  are  mysterious  beings,  never 
seen  out  of  the  ring,  never  beheld  but  in  the  costume  of  gods 
and  sylphs.  With  the  exception  of  Ducrow,  who  can 
scarcely  be  classed  among  them,  who  ever  knew  a  rider  at 
Astley's,  or  saw  him  but  on  horseback?  Can  our  friend  in 
the  military  uniform,  ever  appear  in  threadbare  attire,  or 
descend  to  the  comparatively  un-wadded  costume  of  every- 
day life?    Impossible!    We  cannot — we  will  not — believe  it. 

From  "Sketches  by  Boz." 


The  Stage  in  Dickens's  Novels      91 

Private  Theatres 

"richard  the  third. — duke  of  glo'ster,  2z;  earl  of 
richmond,  1/.;  duke  of  buckingham,  156'.;  catesby,  12s.; 

TRESSEL,    lOs.    Qd.;    LORD    STANLEY,    5s.;    LORD    MAYOR     OF 
LONDON,  25.  6d." 

Such  are  the  written  placards  wafered  up  in  the  gentle- 
men's dressing-room,  or  the  green-room  (where  there  is  any), 
at  a  private  theatre;  and  such  are  the  sums  extracted  from 
the  shop-till,  or  overcharged  in  the  office  expenditure,  by  the 
donkeys  who  are  prevailed  upon  to  pay  for  permission  to 
exhibit  their  lamentable  ignorance  and  boobyism  on  the 
stage  of  a  private  theatre.  This  they  do,  in  proportion  to 
the  scope  afforded  by  the  character  for  the  display  of  their 
imbecility.  For  instance,  the  Duke  of  Glo'ster  is  well 
worth  two  pounds,  because  he  has  it  all  to  himself;  he  must 
wear  a  real  sword,  and  what  is  better  still,  he  must  draw  it 
several  times  in  the  course  of  the  piece.  The  soliloquies 
alone  are  well  worth  fifteen  shillings ;  then  there  is  the  stab- 
bing King  Henry — decidedly  cheap  at  three-and-sixpence, 
that's  eighteen-and-sixpence;  bullying  the  coffin-bearers — 
say  eighteen-pence,  though  it's  worth  much  more — that's  a 
pound.  Then  the  love  scene  with  Lady  Ann,  and  the  bustle 
of  the  fourth  act  can't  be  dear  at  ten  shillings  more — that's 
only  one  pound  ten,  including  the  "off  with  his  head!" — 
which  is  sure  to  bring  down  the  applause,  and  it  is  very 
easy  to  do — "Orf  with  his  ed"  (very  quick  and  loud; — 
then  slow  and  sneeringly) — "So  much  for  Bu-u-u-ucking- 
ham!"  Lay  the  emphasis  on  the  "uck;"  get  yourself  gradu- 
ally into  a  corner,  and  work  with  your  right  hand,  while 
you're  saying  it,  as  if  you  were  feeling  your  way,  and  it's 
sure  to  do.  The  tent  scene  is  confessedly  worth  half-a- 
sovereign,  and  so  you  have  the  fight  in,  gratis,  and  every- 
body knows  what  an  effect  may  be  produced  by  a  good  com- 
bat.   One — two — three — four — over;  then,  one — two — three 


92       Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

— four — under;  then  thrust;  then  dodge  and  slide  about; 
then  fall  down  on  one  knee;  then  fight  upon  it,  and  then  get 
up  again  and  stagger.  You  may  keep  on  doing  this,  as  long 
as  it  seems  to  take — say  ten  minutes — and  then  fall  down 
(backwards,  if  you  can  manage  it  without  hurting  yourself), 
and  die  game:  nothing  like  it  for  producing  an  effect.  They 
always  do  it  at  Astley's  and  Sadler's  Wells,  and  if  they  don't 
know  how  to  do  this  sort  of  thing,  who  in  the  world  does? 
A  small  child,  or  a  female  in  white,  increases  the  interest  of  a 
combat  materially — indeed,  we  are  not  aware  that  a  regular 
legitimate  terrific  broadsword  combat  could  be  done  with- 
out ;  but  it  would  be  rather  difficult,  and  somewhat  unusual, 
to  introduce  this  effect  in  the  last  scene  of  Richard  the  Third, 
so  the  only  thing  to  be  done  is,  just  to  make  the  best  of  a  bad 
bargain,  and  be  as  long  as  possible  fighting  it  out. 

The  principal  patrons  of  private  theatres  are  dirty  boys, 
low  copying-clerks  in  attorneys'  offices,  capacious-headed 
youths  from  city  counting-houses,  Jews  whose  business,  as 
lenders  of  fancy  dresses,  is  a  sure  passport  to  the  amateur 
stage,  shop-boys  who  now  and  then  mistake  their  masters' 
money  for  their  own;  and  a  choice  miscellany  of  idle  vaga- 
bonds. The  proprietor  of  a  private  theatre  may  be  an  ex- 
scene-painter,  a  low  coffee-house-keeper,  a  disappointed 
eighth-rate  actor,  a  retired  smuggler,  or  uncertificated 
bankrupt.  The  theatre  itself  may  be  in  Catherine  Street, 
Strand,  the  purlieus  of  the  city,  the  neighbourhood  of  Gray's 
Inn  Lane,  or  the  vicinity  of  Sadler's  Wells;  or  it  may,  per- 
haps, form  the  chief  nuisance  of  some  shabby  street,  on  the 
Surrey  side  of  Waterloo  Bridge. 

The  lady  performers  pay  nothing  for  their  characters,  and 
it  is  needless  to  add,  are  usually  selected  from  one  class  of 
society;  the  audiences  are  necessarily  of  much  the  same 
character  as  the  performers,  who  receive,  in  return  for  their 
contributions  to  the  management,  tickets  to  the  amount  of 
the  money  they  pay. 


The  Stage  in  Dickens's  Novels      93 

All  the  minor  theatres  in  London,  especially  the  lowest, 
constitute  the  centre  of  a  little  stage-struck  neighbourhood. 
Each  of  them  has  an  audience  exclusively  its  own;  and  at 
any  you  will  see  dropping  into  the  pit  at  half-price,  or  swag- 
gering into  the  back  of  a  box,  if  the  price  of  admission  be  a 
reduced  one,  divers  boys  of  from  fifteen  to  twenty-one  years 
of  age,  who  throw  back  their  coat  and  turn  up  their  wrist- 
bands, after  the  portraits  of  Count  D'Orsay,  hum  tunes  and 
whistle  when  the  curtain  is  down,  by  way  of  persuading  the 
people  near  them,  that  they  are  not  at  all  anxious  to  have  it 
up  again,  and  speak  familiarly  of  the  inferior  performers  as 
Bill  Such-a-one,  and  Ned  So-and-so,  or  tell  each  other  how  a 
new  piece  called  The  Unknown  Bandit  of  the  Invisible 
Cavern,  is  in  rehearsal ;  how  Mister  Palmer  is  to  play  The 
Unknown  Bandit;  how  Charley  Scarton  is  to  take  the  part 
of  an  English  sailor,  and  fight  a  broadsword  combat  with 
six  unknown  bandits,  at  one  and  the  same  time  (one  theatri- 
cal sailor  is  always  equal  to  half  a  dozen  men  at  least) ;  how 
Mister  Palmer  and  Charley  Scarton  are  to  go  through  a 
double  hornpipe  in  fetters  in  the  second  act;  how  the  inte- 
rior of  the  invisible  cavern  is  to  occupy  the  whole  extent  of 
the  stage;  and  other  town-surprising  theatrical  announce- 
ments. These  gentlemen  are  the  amateurs — the  Richards, 
Shylocks,  Beverleys,  and  Othellos — the  Young  Dorntons, 
Rovers,  Captain  Absolutes,  and  Charles  Surfaces — of  a 
private  theatre. 

See  them  at  the  neighbouring  public-house  or  the  theatri- 
cal coffee-shop !  They  are  the  kings  of  the  place,  supposing 
no  real  performers  to  be  present;  and  roll  about,  hats  on  one 
side,  and  arms  a-kimbo,  as  if  they  had  actually  come  into 
possession  of  eighteen  shillings  a  week,  and  a  share  of  a 
ticket  night.  If  one  of  them  does  but  know  an  Astley's 
supernumerary  he  is  a  happy  fellow.  The  mingled  air  of 
envy  and  admiration  with  which  his  companions  will  regard 
him,  as  he  converses  familiarly  with  some  mouldy-looking 


94       Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

man  in  a  fancy  neckerchief,  whose  partially  corked  eye- 
brows, and  half -rouged  face,  testify  to  the  fact  of  his  having 
just  left  the  stage  or  the  circle,  sufficiently  shows  in  what 
high  admiration  these  public  characters  are  held. 

With  the  double  view  of  guarding  against  the  discovery  of 
friends  or  employers,  and  enhancing  the  interest  of  an  as- 
sumed character,  by  attaching  a  high-sounding  name  to  its 
representative,  these  geniuses  assume  fictitious  names, 
which  are  not  the  least  amusing  part  of  the  play-bill  of  a 
private  theatre.  Belville,  Melville,  Treville,  Berkeley, 
Randolph,  Byron,  St.  Clair,  and  so  forth,  are  among  the 
humblest;  and  the  less  imposing  titles  of  Jenkins,  Walker, 
Thomson,  Barker,  Solomons,  &c.  are  completely  laid  aside. 
There  is  something  imposing  in  this,  and  it  is  an  excellent 
apology  for  shabbiness  into  the  bargain.  A  shrunken,  faded 
coat,  a  decayed  hat,  a  patched  and  soiled  pair  of  trousers — 
nay,  even  a  very  dirty  shirt  (and  none  of  these  appearances 
are  very  uncommon  among  the  members  of  the  corps 
dramatique) ,  may  be  worn  for  the  purpose  of  disguise,  and 
to  prevent  the  remotest  chance  of  recognition.  Then  it 
prevents  any  troublesome  inquiries  or  explanations  about 
employment  and  pursuits;  everybody  is  a  gentleman  at 
large  for  the  occasion,  and  there  are  none  of  those  unpleas- 
ant and  unnecessary  distinctions  to  which  even  genius  must 
occasionally  succumb  elsewhere.  As  to  the  ladies  (God  bless 
them),  they  are  quite  above  any  formal  absurdities;  the 
mere  circumstance  of  your  being  behind  the  scenes  is  a 
sufficient  introduction  to  their  society — for  of  course  they 
know  that  none  but  strictly  respectable  persons  would  be 
admitted  into  that  close  fellowship  with  them,  which  acting 
engenders.  They  place  implicit  reliance  on  the  manager, 
no  doubt;  and  as  to  the  manager,  he  is  all  affability  when  he 
knows  you  well, — or,  in  other  words,  when  he  has  pocketed 
your  money  once,  and  entertains  confident  hopes  of  doing 
so  again. 


The  Stage  in  Dickens's  Novels      95 

A  quarter  before  eight — there  will  be  a  full  house  to-night 
— six  parties  in  the  boxes,  already;  four  little  boys  and  a 
woman  in  the  pit;  and  two  fiddles  and  a  flute  in  the  orches- 
tra who  have  got  through  five  overtures  since  seven  o'clock 
(the  hour  fixed  for  the  commencement  of  the  performances), 
and  have  just  begun  the  sixth.  There  will  be  plenty  of  it, 
though,  when  it  does  begin,  for  there  is  enough  in  the  bill  to 
last  six  hours  at  least. 

That  gentleman  in  the  white  hat  and  checked  shirt,  brown 
coat  and  brass  buttons,  lounging  behind  the  stage-box  on  the 
O.  P.  side,  is  Mr.  Horatio  St.  Julien,  alias  Jem  Larkins.  His 
line  is  genteel  comedy — his  father's,  coal  and  potato.  He 
does  Alfred  Highflier  in  the  last  piece,  and  very  well  he'll  do 
it — at  the  price.  The  party  of  gentlemen  in  the  opposite 
box,  to  whom  he  has  just  nodded,  are  friends  and  supporters 
of  Mr.  Beverley  (otherwise  Loggins),  the  Macbeth  of  the 
night.  You  observe  their  attempts  to  appear  easy  and 
gentlemanly,  each  member  of  the  party,  with  his  feet  cocked 
upon  the  cushion  in  front  of  the  box !  They  let  them  do  these 
things  here,  upon  the  same  humane  principle  which  permits 
poor  people's  children  to  knock  double  knocks  at  the  door 
of  an  empty  house — because  they  can't  do  it  anywhere  else. 
The  two  stout  men  in  the  centre  box,  with  an  opera-glass 
ostentatiously  placed  before  them,  are  friends  of  the  pro- 
prietor— opulent  country  managers,  as  he  confidentially 
informs  every  individual  among  the  crew  behind  the  curtain 
— opulent  country  managers  looking  out  for  recruits;  a 
representation  which  Mr.  Nathan,  the  dresser,  who  is  in  the 
manager's  interest,  and  has  just  arrived  with  the  costumes, 
offers  to  confirm  upon  oath  if  required — corroborative 
evidence,  however,  is  quite  unnecessary,  for  the  gulls  be- 
lieve it  at  once. 

The  stout  Jewess  who  has  just  entered  is  the  mother  of 
the  pale  bony  little  girl,  with  the  necklace  of  blue  glass  beads, 
sitting  by  her;  she  is  being  brought  up  to  "the  profession." 


96       Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

Pantomime  is  to  be  her  line,  and  she  is  coming  out  to-night, 
in  a  hornpipe  after  the  tragedy.  The  short  thin  man  beside 
Mr.  St.  JuHen,  whose  white  face  is  so  deeply  seared  with  the 
small-pox,  and  whose  dirty  shirt-front  is  inlaid  with  open- 
work, and  embossed  with  coral  studs  like  ladybirds,  is  the 
low  comedian  and  comic  singer  of  the  establishment.  The 
remainder  of  the  audience — a  tolerably  numerous  one  by 
this  time — are  a  motley  group  of  dupes  and  blackguards. 

The  foot-lights  have  just  made  their  appearance:  the 
wicks  of  the  six  little  oil  lamps  round  the  only  tier  of  boxes 
are  being  turned  up,  and  the  additional  light  thus  afforded 
serves  to  show  the  presence  of  dirt,  and  absence  of  paint, 
which  forms  a  prominent  feature  in  the  audience  part  of  the 
house.  As  these  preparations,  however,  announce  the 
speedy  commencement  of  the  play,  let  us  take  a  peep  "be- 
hind," previous  to  the  ringing-up. 

The  little  narrow  passages  beneath  the  stage  are  neither 
especially  clean  nor  too  brilliantly  lighted ;  and  the  absence 
of  any  flooring,  together  with  the  damp  mildewy  smell 
which  pervades  the  place,  does  not  conduce  in  any  great 
degree  to  their  comfortable  appearance.  Don't  fall  over 
this  plate  basket — it's  one  of  the  "properties" — the  caldron 
for  the  witches'  cave;  and  the  three  uncouth-looking  figures, 
with  broken  clothes-props  in  their  hands,  who  are  drinking 
gin-and-water  out  of  a  pint  pot,  are  the  weird  sisters.  This 
miserable  room,  lighted  by  candles  in  sconces  placed  at 
lengthened  intervals  round  the  wall,  is  the  dressing-room, 
common  to  the  gentlemen  performers,  and  the  square  hole 
in  the  ceiling  is  the  trap-door  of  the  stage  above.  You  will 
observe  that  the  ceiling  is  ornamented  with  the  beams  that 
support  the  boards,  and  tastefully  hung  with  cobwebs. 

The  characters  in  the  tragedy  are  all  dressed,  and  their 
own  clothes  are  scattered  in  hurried  confusion  over  the 
wooden  dresser  which  surrounds  the  room.  That  snuff -shop- 
looking  figure,  in  front  of  the  glass,  is  Banquo;  and  the  young 


The  Stage  in  Dickens's  Novels       97 

lady  with  the  Hberal  display  of  legs,  who  is  kindly  painting 
his  face  with  a  hare's  foot,  is  dressed  for  Fleance.  The  large 
woman,  who  is  consulting  the  stage  directions  in  Cumber- 
land's edition  of  Macbeth,  is  the  Lady  Macbeth  of  the  night; 
she  is  always  selected  to  play  the  part,  because  she  is  tall 
and  stout,  and  looks  a  little  like  Mrs.  Siddons — at  a  con- 
siderable distance.  That  stupid-looking  milksop,  with  light 
hair  and  bow  legs — a  kind  of  man  whom  you  can  warrant 
town-made — is  fresh  caught;  he  plays  Malcolm  to-night, 
just  to  accustom  himself  to  an  audience.  He  will  get  on 
better  by  degrees;  he  will  play  Othello  in  a  month,  and  in  a 
month  more,  will  very  probably  be  apprehended  on  a  charge 
of  embezzlement.  The  black-eyed  female  with  whom  he  is 
talking  so  earnestly,  is  dressed  for  the  "gentlewoman." 
It  is  her  first  appearance,  too — in  that  character.  The  boy 
of  fourteen  who  is  having  his  eyebrows  smeared  with  soap 
and  whitening,  is  Duncan,  King  of  Scotland;  and  the  two 
dirty  men  with  the  corked  countenances,  in  very  old  green 
tunics,  and  dirty  drab  boots,  are  the  "army." 

"Look  sharp  below  there,  gents,"  exclaims  the  dresser,  a 
red-headed  and  red-whiskered  Jew,  calling  through  the 
trap,  "they're  a-going  to  ring  up.  The  flute  says  he'll  be 
blowed  if  he  plays  any  more,  and  they're  getting  precious 
noisy  in  front."  A  general  rush  immediately  takes  place  to 
the  half-dozen  little  steep  steps  leading  to  the  stage,  and  the 
heterogeneous  group  are  soon  assembled  at  the  side  scenes, 
in  breathless  anxiety  and  motley  confusion. 

"Now,"  cries  the  manager,  consulting  the  written  list 
which  hangs  behind  the  first  P.  S.  wing,  "Scene  1,  open 
country — lamps  down — thunder  and  lightning — all  ready. 
White?"  [This  is  addressed  to  one  of  the  army.]  "All 
ready." — "  Very  well.  Scene  2,  front  chamber.  Is  the  front 
chamber  down?"— "Yes."— "Very  well."— "Jones"  [to  the 
other  army  who  is  up  in  the  flies].  "Hallo!" — "Wind  up 
the  open  country  when  we  ring  up." — "I'll  take  care." — 
f 


98       Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

"Scene  3,  back  perspective  with  practical  bridge.     Bridge 
ready.  White?    Got  the  tressels  there?"— "All  right." 

"Very  well.  Clear  the  stage,"  cries  the  manager,  hastily 
packing  every  member  of  the  company  into  the  little  space 
there  is  between  the  wings  and  the  wall,  and  one  wing  and 
another.  "Places,  places.  Now  then.  Witches — Duncan — 
Malcolm — bleeding  officer — where's  the  bleeding  officer?  " — 
"Here!"  replies  the  officer,  who  has  been  rose-pinking  for 
the  character.  "Get  ready,  then;  now.  White,  ring  the 
second  music-bell."  The  actors  who  are  to  be  discovered 
are  hastily  arranged,  and  the  actors  who  are  not  to  be  dis- 
covered place  themselves,  in  their  anxiety  to  peep  at  the 
house,  just  where  the  audience  can  see  them.  The  bell  rings, 
and  the  orchestra,  in  acknowledgment  of  the  call,  plays 
three  distinct  chords.  The  bell  rings — the  tragedy  (!) 
opens — and  our  description  closes. 

From  "Sketches  by  Boz." 

Mrs.  Joseph  Porter 

Most  extensive  were  the  preparations  at  Rose  Villa,  Clap- 
ham  Rise,  in  the  occupation  of  Mr.  Gattleton  (a  stock- 
broker in  especially  comfortable  circumstances),  and  great 
was  the  anxiety  of  Mr.  Gattleton's  interesting  family,  as 
the  day  fixed  for  the  representation  of  the  Private  Play 
which  had  been  "many  months  in  preparation,"approached. 
The  whole  family  was  infected  with  the  mania  for  Private 
Theatricals;  the  house,  usually  so  clean  and  tidy,  was,  to 
use  Mr.  Gattleton's  expressive  description,  "regularly 
turned  out  o'  windows;"  the  large  dining-room,  dismantled 
of  its  furniture  and  ornaments,  presented  a  strange  jumble 
of  flats,  flies,  wings,  lamps,  bridges,  clouds,  thunder  and 
lightning,  festoons  and  flowers,  daggers  and  foil,  and  various 
other  messes  in  theatrical  slang  included  under  the  com- 
prehensive name  of  "properties."     The  bedrooms  were 


The  Stage  in  Dickens*s  Novels      99 

crowded  with  scenery,  the  kitchen  was  occupied  by  car- 
penters. Rehearsals  took  place  every  other  night  in  the 
drawing-room,  and  every  sofa  in  the  house  was  more  or  less 
damaged  by  the  perseverance  and  spirit  with  which  Mr. 
Sempronius  Gattleton,  and  Miss  Lucina,  rehearsed  the 
smothering  scene  in  "Othello" — it  having  been  determined 
that  that  tragedy  should  form  the  first  portion  of  the  even- 
ing's entertainments. 

"When  we're  a  leetle  more  perfect,  I  think  it  will  go  ad- 
mirably," said  Mr.  Sempronius,  addressing  his  corps  dra- 
maiique,  at  the  conclusion  of  the  hundred  and  fiftieth 
rehearsal.  In  consideration  of  his  sustaining  the  trifling  in- 
convenience of  bearing  all  the  expenses  of  the  play,  Mr,  Sem- 
pronius hadbeen,  in  the  most  handsome  manner,  unanimously 
elected  stage-manager.  "Evans,"  continued  Mr.  Gattleton 
the  younger,  addressing  a  tall,  thin,  pale  young  gentleman, 
with  extensive  whiskers — "  Evans,  you  play  Roderigo  beauti- 
fully." 

"Beautifully,"  echoed  the  three  Miss  Gattletons;  for  Mr. 
Evans  was  pronounced  by  all  his  lady  friends  to  be  "quite 
a  dear."  He  looked  so  interesting,  and  had  such  lovely 
whiskers:  to  say  nothing  of  his  talent  for  writing  verses  in 
albums  and  playing  the  flute !    Roderigo  simpered  and  bowed. 

"But  I  think,"  added  the  manager,  "you  are  hardly  per- 
fect in  the — fall — in  the  fencing-scene,  where  you  are — you 
understand.''" 

"It's  very  difficult,"  said  Mr.  Evans,  thoughtfully;  "I've 
fallen  about  a  good  deal  in  our  counting-house  lately,  for 
practice,  only  I  find  it  hurts  one  so.  Being  obliged  to  fall 
backward  you  see,  it  bruises  one's  head  a  good  deal." 

"But  you  must  take  care  you  don't  knock  a  wing  down,'* 
said  Mr.  Gattleton,  the  elder,  who  had  been  appointed 
prompter,  and  who  took  as  much  interest  in  the  play  as  the 
youngest  of  the  company.  "The  stage  is  very  narrow,  you 
know." 


100      Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

"Oh!  don't  be  afraid,"  said  Mr.  Evans,  with  a  very  self- 
satisfied  air:  "I  shall  fall  with  my  head  'off,'  and  then  I 
can't  do  any  harm." 

"But,  egad,"  said  the  manager,  rubbing  his  hands,  "we 
shall  make  a  decided  hit  in  'Masaniello.'  Harleigh  sings 
that  music  admirably." 

Everybody  echoed  the  sentiment.  Mr.  Harleigh  smiled, 
and  looked  foolish — not  an  unusual  thing  with  him — 
hummed  "Behold  how  brightly  breaks  the  morning,"  and 
blushed  as  red  as  the  fisherman's  nightcap  he  was  trying  on. 

"Let's  see,"  resumed  the  manager,  telling  the  number  on 
his  fingers,  "we  shall  have  three  dancing  female  peasants, 
besides  Fenella  and  four  fishermen.  Then,  there's  our  man 
Tom;  he  can  have  a  pair  of  ducks  of  mine,  and  a  check  shirt 
of  Bob's,  and  a  red  nightcap,  and  he'll  do  for  another — that's 
five.  In  the  choruses,  of  course,  we  can  sing  at  the  sides; 
and  in  the  market-scene  we  can  walk  about  in  cloaks  and 
things.  When  the  revolt  takes  place,  Tom  must  keep  rush- 
ing in  on  one  side  and  out  on  the  other,  with  a  pickaxe,  as 
fast  as  he  can.  The  effect  will  be  electrical;  it  will  look  ex- 
actly as  if  there  were  an  immense  number  of  'em.  And  in 
the  eruption-scene  we  must  burn  the  red  fire,  and  upset  the 
tea-trays,  and  make  all  sorts  of  noises — and  it's  sure  to  do." 

"Sure!  sure!"  cried  all  the  performers  und  voce — and 
away  hurried  Mr.  Sempronius  Gattleton  to  wash  the  burnt 
cork  off  his  face,  and  superintend  the  "setting  up"  of  some 
of  the  amateur-painted,  but  never-sufficiently-to-be-ad- 
mired, scenery. 

Mrs.  Gattleton  was  a  kind,  good-tempered,  vulgar  soul, 
exceedingly  fond  of  her  husband  and  children,  and  entertain- 
ing only  three  dislikes.  In  the  first  place,  she  had  a  natural 
antipathy  to  anybody  else's  unmarried  daughters;  in  the 
second,  she  was  in  bodily  fear  of  anything  in  the  shape  of 
ridicule;  lastly — almost  a  necessary  consequence  of  this 
feeling — she  regarded,  with  feelings  of  the  utmost  horror,  one 


The  Stage  in  Dickens's  Novels     loi 

Mrs.  Joseph  Porter,  over  the  way.  However,  the  good 
folks  of  Clapham  and  its  vicinity  stood  very  niuch  in 
awe  of  scandal  and  sarcasm;  and  thus  Mrs.  Joseph  Porter 
was  courted,  and  flattered,  and  caressed,  and  invited,  for 
much  the  same  reason  that  induces  a  poor  author,  without 
a  farthing  in  his  pocket,  to  behave  with  extraordinary  civiUty 
to  a  twopenny  postman. 

"Never  mind,  ma,"  said  Miss  Emma  Porter,  in  colloquy 
with  her  respected  relative,  and  trying  to  look  unconcerned, 
"if  they  had  invited  me,  you  know  that  neither  you  nor 
pa  would  have  allowed  me  to  take  part  in  such  an  ex- 
hibition." 

"Just  what  I  should  have  thought  from  your  high  sense  of 
propriety,"  returned  the  mother.  "  I  am  glad  to  see,  Emma, 
you  know  how  to  designate  the  proceeding."  Miss  P.,  by- 
the-bye,  had  only  the  week  before  made  "an  exhibition"  of 
herself  for  four  days,  behind  a  counter  at  a  fancy  fair,  to  all 
and  every  of  her  Majesty's  liege  subjects  who  were  disposed 
to  pay  a  shilling  each  for  the  privilege  of  seeing  some  four 
dozen  girls  flirting  with  strangers,  and  playing  at  shop. 

"There!"  said  Mrs.  Porter,  looking  out  of  window;  "there 
are  two  rounds  of  beef  and  a  ham  going  in — clearly  for  sand- 
wiches; and  Thomas,  the  pastry-cook,  says,  there  have  been 
twelve  dozen  tarts  ordered,  besides  blanc-mange  and  jellies. 
Upon  my  word!  think  of  the  Gattletons  in  fancy  dresses, 
too!" 

"Oh,  it's  too  ridiculous!"  said  Miss  Porter,  hysterically. 

"I'll  manage  to  put  them  a  little  out  of  conceit  with  the 
business,  however,"  said  Mrs.  Porter,  and  out  she  went  on 
her  charitable  errand. 

"Well,  my  dear  Mrs.  Gattleton,"  said  Mrs.  Joseph  Por- 
ter, after  they  had  been  closeted  for  some  time,  and  when, 
by  dint  of  indefatigable  pumping,  she  had  managed  to  ex- 
tract all  the  news  about  the  play,  "well,  my  dear,  people 
may  say  what  they  please;  indeed  we  know  they  will,  for 


102      Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

some  folks  are  so  ill-natured.  Ah,  my  dear  Miss  Lucina, 
how  d'ye  do?  I  was  just  telling  your  mamma  that  I  have 
heard  it  said  that " 

"What?" 

"Mrs.  Porter  is  alluding  to  the  play,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs. 
Gattleton;  "she  was,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  just  informing  me 
that " 

"Oh,  now  pray  don't  mention  it,"  interrupted  Mrs. 
Porter;  "it's  most  absurd — quite  as  absurd  as  young  What's- 
his-name  saying  he  wondered  how  Miss  Carolina,  with  such 
a  foot  and  ankle,  could  have  the  vanity  to  play  Fenella." 

"Highly  impertinent,  whoever  said  it,"  said  Mrs.  Gattle- 
ton, bridling  up. 

"Certainly,  my  dear,"  chimed  in  the  delighted  Mrs. 
Porter;  "most  undoubtedly!  Because,  as  I  said,  if  Miss 
Carolina  does  play  Fenella,  it  doesn't  follow,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  that  she  should  think  she  has  a  pretty  foot; — and 
then — such  puppies  as  these  young  men  are — he  had  the 
impudence  to  say,  that " 

How  far  the  amiable  Mrs.  Porter  might  have  succeeded  in 
her  pleasant  purpose,  it  is  impossible  to  say,  had  not  the 
entrance  of  Mr.  Thomas  Balderstone,  Mrs.  Gattleton's 
brother,  familiarly  called  in  the  family  "Uncle  Tom," 
changed  the  course  of  conversation,  and  suggested  to  her 
mind  an  excellent  plan  of  operation  on  the  evening  of  the 
play. 

Uncle  Tom  was  very  rich,  and  exceedingly  fond  of  his 
nephews  and  nieces :  as  a  matter  of  course,  therefore,  he  was 
an  object  of  great  importance  in  his  own  family.  He  was 
one  of  the  best-hearted  men  in  existence:  always  in  a  good 
temper,  and  always  talking.  It  was  his  boast  that  he  wore 
top-boots  on  all  occasions,  and  had  never  worn  a  black  silk 
neckerchief;  and  it  was  his  pride  that  he  remembered  all  the 
principal  plays  of  Shakespeare  from  beginning  to  end — and 
so  he  did.    The  result  of  this  parrot-like  accomplishment 


The  Stage  in  Dickens's  Novels     103 

was,  that  he  was  not  only  perpetually  quoting  himself,  but 
that  he  could  never  sit  by,  and  hear  a  misquotation  from  the 
"Swan  of  Avon"  without  setting  the  unfortunate  delin- 
quent right.  He  was  also  something  of  a  wag;  never  missed 
an  opportunity  of  saying  what  he  considered  a  good  thing, 
and  invariably  laughed  until  he  cried  at  anything  that  ap- 
peared to  him  mirth  moving  or  ridiculous. 

"  Well,  girls ! "  said  Uncle  Tom,  after  the  preparatory  cere- 
mony of  kissing  and  how-d'ye-do-ing  had  been  gone  through 
— "how  d'ye  get  on?  Know  your  parts,  eh? — Lucina,  my 
dear,  act  ii.,  scene  1 — place,  left — cue — 'Unknown  fate,' — 
What's  next,  eh? — Go  on — 'The  Heavens '" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Miss  Lucina,  "I  recollect 

The  heavens  forbid 
But  that  our  loves  and  comforts  should  increase 
Even  as  our  days  do  grow! 

"Make  a  pause  here  and  there,"  said  the  old  gentleman, 
who  was  a  great  critic.  "'But  that  our  loves  and  comforts 
should  increase' — emphasis  on  the  last  syllable,  'crease,' — 
loud  again,  *as  our  days  do  grow;'  emphasis  on  days.  That's 
the  way,  my  dear;  trust  to  your  uncle  for  emphasis.  Ah! 
Sem,  my  boy,  how  are  you?" 

"Very  well,  thankee,  uncle,"  returned  Mr.  Sempronius, 
who  had  just  appeared  looking  something  like  a  ringdove 
with  a  small  circle  round  each  eye:  the  result  of  his  constant 
corking,  "Of  course  we  see  you  on  Thursday." 

"Of  course,  of  course,  my  dear  boy." 

"What  a  pity  it  is  your  nephew  didn't  think  of  making 
you  prompter,  Mr.  Balderstone ! "  whispered  Mrs.  Joseph 
Porter,  "you  would  have  been  invaluable." 

"Well,  I  flatter  myself,  I  should  have  been  tolerably  up  to 
the  thing,"  responded  Uncle  Tom. 

"I  must  bespeak  sitting  next  you  on  the  night,"  resumed 
Mrs.   Porter;   "and  then,  if  our  dear  young  friends  here 


104      Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

should  be  at  all  wrong,  you  will  be  able  to  enlighten 
me.    I  shall  be  so  interested." 

"I  am  sure  I  shall  be  most  happy  to  give  you  any  assist- 
ance in  my  power." 

"Mind,  it's  a  bargain." 

"Certainly." 

"I  don't  know  how  it  is,"  said  Mrs.  Gattleton  to  her 
daughters,  as  they  were  sitting  round  the  fire  in  the  evening, 
looking  over  their  parts,  "but  I  really  very  much  wish  Mrs. 
Joseph  Porter  wasn't  coming  on  Thursday.  I  am  sure  she's 
scheming  something." 

"She  can't  make  us  ridiculous,  however,"  observed  Mr. 
Sempronius  Gattleton,  haughtily. 

The  long-looked-f or  Thursday  arrived  in  due  course,  and 
brought  with  it,  as  Mr.  Gattleton,  senior,  philosophically 
observed,  "no  disappointments,  to  speak  of."  True,  it  was 
yet  a  matter  of  doubt  whether  Cassio  would  be  enabled  to 
get  into  the  dress  which  had  been  sent  for  him  from  the 
masquerade  warehouse.  It  was  equally  uncertain  whether 
the  principal  female  singer  would  be  sufficiently  recovered 
from  the  influenza  to  make  her  appearance;  Mr.  Harleigh, 
the  Masaniello  of  the  night,  was  hoarse,  and  rather  unwell, 
iji  consequence  of  the  great  quantity  of  lemon  and  sugar- 
candy  he  had  eaten  to  improve  his  voice;  and  two  flutes  and 
a  violoncello  had  pleaded  severe  colds.  What  of  that?  the 
audience  were  all  coming.  Everybody  knew  his  part;  the 
dresses  were  covered  with  tinsel  and  spangles;  the  white 
plumes  looked  beautiful;  Mr.  Evans  had  practised  falling 
until  he  was  bruised  from  head  to  foot  and  quite  perfect; 
lago  was  sure  that,  in  the  stabbing-scene,  he  should  make  "a 
decided  hit."  A  self-taught  deaf  gentleman,  who  had  kindly 
offered  to  bring  his  flute,  would  be  a  most  valuable  addition 
to  the  orchestra;  Miss  Jenkins's  talent  for  the  piano  was  too 
well  known  to  be  doubted  for  an  instant ;  Mr.  Cape  had  prac- 
tised the  violin  accompaniment  with  her  frequently;  and 


The  Stage  in  Dickens's  Novels     105 

Mr.  Brown,  who  had  kindly  undertaken,  at  a  few  hours' 
notice,  to  bring  his  violoncello,  would,  no  doubt,  manage 
extremely  well. 

Seven  o'clock  came,  and  so  did  the  audience;  all  the  rank 
and  fashion  of  Clapham  and  its  vicinity  was  fast  filling  the 
theatre.  There  were  the  Smiths,  the  Gubbinses,  the  Nixons, 
the  Dixons,  the  Hicksons,  people  with  all  sorts  of  names, 
two  aldermen,  a  sheriff  in  perspective.  Sir  Thomas  Glumper 
(who  had  been  knighted  in  the  last  reign  for  carrying  up  an 
address  on  somebody's  escaping  from  nothing);  and  last, 
not  least,  there  were  Mrs.  Joseph  Porter  and  Uncle  Tom, 
seated  in  the  centre  of  the  third  row  from  the  stage;  Mrs. 
P.  amusing  Uncle  Tom  with  all  sorts  of  stories,  and  Uncle 
Tom  amusing  every  one  else  by  laughing  most  immoder- 
ately. 

Ting,  ting,  ting !  went  the  prompter's  bell  at  eight  oclock 
precisely,  and  dash  went  the  orchestra  into  the  overture  to 
"The  Men  of  Prometheus."  The  pianoforte  player  ham- 
mered away  with  laudable  perseverance;  and  the  violoncello, 
which  struck  in  at  intervals,  "sounded  very  well,  consider- 
ing." The  unfortunate  individual,  however,  who  had  under- 
taken to  play  the  flute  accompaniment  "at  sight,"  found, 
from  fatal  experience,  the  perfect  truth  of  the  old  adage, 
"out  of  sight,  out  of  mind;"  for  being  very  near-sighted, 
and  being  placed  at  a  considerable  distance  from  his  music- 
book,  all  he  had  an  opportunity  of  doing  was  to  play  a  bar 
now  and  then  in  the  wrong  place,  and  put  the  other  per- 
formers out.  It  is,  however,  but  justice  to  Mr.  Brown  to  say 
that  he  did  this  to  admiration.  The  overture,  in  fact,  was  not 
unlike  a  race  between  the  different  instruments;  the  piano 
came  in  first  by  several  bars,  and  the  violoncello  next,  quite 
distancing  the  poor  flute;  for  the  deaf  gentleman  ioo-too'd 
away,  quite  unconscious  that  he  was  at  all  wrong,  until 
apprised,  by  the  applause  of  the  audience,  that  the  overture 
was  concluded.    A  considerable  bustle  and  shuffling  of  feet 


io6      Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

was  then  heard  upon  the  stage,  accompanied  by  whispers 
of  "Here's  a  pretty  go! — what's  to  be  done?"  &c.  The 
audience  applauded  again,  by  way  of  raising  the  spirits  of 
the  performers;  and  then  Mr.  Sempronius  desired  the 
prompter,  in  a  very  audible  voice,  to  "clear  the  stage,  and 
ring  up." 

Ting,  ting,  ting!  went  the  bell  again.  Everybody  sat 
down;  the  curtain  shook;  rose  suflBciently  high  to  display 
several  pair  of  yellow  boots  paddling  about;  and  there 
remained. 

Ting,  ting,  ting!  went  the  bell  again.  The  curtain  was 
violently  convulsed,  but  rose  no  higher;  the  audience  tit- 
tered; Mrs.  Porter  looked  at  Uncle  Tom;  Uncle  Tom  looked 
at  everybody,  rubbing  his  hands,  and  laughing  with  perfect 
rapture.  After  as  much  ringing  with  the  little  bell  as  a 
muflBng  boy  would  make  in  going  down  a  tolerably  long 
street,  and  a  vast  deal  of  whispering,  hammering,  and  calling 
for  nails  and  cord,  the  curtain  at  length  rose,  and  discovered 
Mr.  Sempronius  Gattleton  solus,  and  decked  for  Othello. 
After  three  distinct  rounds  of  applause,  during  which  Mr. 
Sempronius  applied  his  right  hand  to  his  left  breast,  and 
bowed  in  the  most  approved  manner,  the  manager  advanced 
and  said; 

"Ladies  and  Gentlemen — I  assure  you  it  is  with  sincere 
regret,  that  I  regret  to  be  compelled  to  inform  you,  that  lago 
who  was  to  have  played  Mr.  Wilson — I  beg  your  pardon. 
Ladies  and  Gentlemen,  but  I  am  naturally  somewhat 
agitated  (applause) — I  mean,  Mr.  Wilson,  who  was  to  have 
played  lago,  is — that  is,  has  been — or,  in  other  words.  La- 
dies and  Gentlemen,  the  fact  is,  that  I  have  just  received  a 
note,  in  which  I  am  informed  that  lago  is  unavoidably 
detained  at  the  Post  Office  this  evening.  Under  these  cir- 
cumstances, I  trust — a — a — amateur  performance — a — 
another  gentleman  undertaken  to  read  the  part — request 
indulgence  for  a  short  time — courtesy  and  kindness  of  a 


The  Stage  in  Dickens's  Novels     107 

British  audience."  Overwhelming  applause.  Exit  Mr. 
Sempronius  Gattleton,  and  curtain  falls. 

The  audience  were,  of  course,  exceedingly  good-hum- 
oured; the  whole  business  was  a  joke;  and  accordingly  they 
waited  for  an  hour  with  the  utmost  patience,  being  enlivened 
by  an  interlude  of  rout-cakes  and  lemonade.  It  appeared 
by  Mr.  Sempronius's  subsequent  explanation,  that  the 
delay  would  not  have  been  so  great,  had  it  not  so  happened 
that  when  the  substitute  lago  had  finished  dressing,  and 
just  as  the  play  was  on  the  point  of  commencing,  the  original 
lago  unexpectedly  arrived.  The  former  was  therefore  com- 
pelled to  undress,  and  the  latter  to  dress  for  his  part;  which, 
as  he  found  some  dijSBculty  in  getting  into  his  clothes,  oc- 
cupied no  inconsiderable  time.  At  last,  the  tragedy  began 
in  real  earnest.  It  went  off  well  enough,  until  the  third 
scene  of  the  first  act,  in  which  Othello  addresses  the  Senate: 
the  only  remarkable  circumstance  being,  that  as  lago  could 
not  get  on  any  of  the  stage  boots,  in  consequence  of  his 
feet  being  violently  swelled  with  the  heat  and  excitement, 
he  was  under  the  necessity  of  playing  the  part  in  a  pair  of 
Wellingtons,  which  contrasted  rather  oddly  with  his  richly 
embroidered  pantaloons.  When  Othello  started  with  his 
address  to  the  Senate  (whose  dignity  was  represented  by  the 
Duke,  a  carpenter,  two  men  engaged  on  the  recommenda- 
tion of  the  gardener,  and  a  boy),  Mrs.  Porter  found  the 
opportunity  she  so  anxiously  sought. 

Mr.  Sempronius  proceeded: 

"'Most  potent,  grave,  and  reverend  signiors. 
My  very  noble  and  approv'd  good  masters. 
That  I  have  ta'en  away  this  old  man's  daughter 
It  is  most  true; — rude  am  I  in  my  speech '" 

"Is  that  right?"  whispered  Mrs.  Porter  to  Uncle  Tom. 

"No." 

"Tell  him  so,  then." 


io8     Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

"I  will.  Sem!"  called  out  Uncle  Tom,  "that's  wrong, 
my  boy." 

"What's  wrong,  uncle?"  demanded  Othello ^  quite  for- 
getting the  dignity  of  his  situation. 

"  You've  left  out  something.    '  True  I  have  married '  '* 

"Ah,  ah!"  said  Mr,  Sempronius,  endeavouring  to  hide  his 
confusion  as  much  and  as  ineffectually  as  the  audience  at- 
tempted to  conceal  their  half-suppressed  tittering,  by  cough- 
ing with  extraordinary  violence 

"'true  I  have  married  her; — 

The  very  head  and  front  of  my  offending 
Hath  this  extent;  no  more.'" 

{Aside)  Why  don't  you  prompt,  father?" 

"Because  I've  mislaid  my  spectacles,"  said  poor  Mr» 
Gattleton,  almost  dead  with  the  heat  and  bustle. 

"There,  now  it's  'rude  am  I,'"  said  Uncle  Tom. 

"Yes,  I  know  it  is,"  returned  the  unfortunate  manager, 
proceeding  with  his  part. 

It  would  be  useless  and  tiresome  to  quote  the  number  of 
instances  in  which  Uncle  Tom,  now  completely  in  his  ele- 
ment, and  instigated  by  the  mischievous  Mrs.  Porter,  cor- 
rected the  mistakes  of  the  performers;  suffice  it  to  say  that, 
having  mounted  his  hobby,  nothing  could  induce  him  to  dis- 
mount; so,  during  the  whole  remainder  of  the  play,  he  per- 
formed a  kind  of  running  accompaniment,  by  muttering 
everybody's  part  as  it  was  being  delivered,  in  an  under-tone. 
The  audience  were  highly  amused,  Mrs.  Porter  delighted, 
the  performers  embarrassed;  Uncle  Tom  never  was  better 
pleased  in  all  his  life;  and  Uncle  Tom's  nephews  and  nieces 
had  never,  although  the  declared  heirs  to  his  large  property, 
so  heartily  wished  him  gathered  to  his  fathers  as  on  that 
memorable  occasion. 

From  "Sketches  by  Boz.** 


The  Stage  in  Dickens's  Novels     109 

David  Copperfield  Goes  to  the  Play 

1.     At  Covent  Garden 

Being  then  in  a  pleasant  frame  of  mind  (from  which  I 
infer  that  poisoning  is  not  always  disagreeable  in  some 
stages  of  the  process),  I  resolved  to  go  to  the  play.  It  was 
Covent  Garden  Theatre  that  I  chose;  and  there,  from  the 
back  of  a  centre  box,  I  saw  Julius  Ctesar  and  the  new  Pan- 
tomine.  To  have  all  those  noble  Romans  alive  before  me, 
and  walking  in  and  out  for  my  entertainment,  instead  of 
being  the  stern  taskmasters  they  had  been  at  school,  was  a 
most  novel  and  delightful  effect.  But  the  mingled  reality 
and  mystery  of  the  whole  show,  the  influence  upon  me  of  the 
poetry,  the  lights,  the  music,  the  company,  the  smooth 
stupendous  changes  of  glittering  and  brilliant  scenery,  was 
so  dazzling,  and  opened  up  such  illimitable  regions  of  de- 
light that  when  I  came  out  into  the  rainy  street,  at  twelve 
o'clock  at  night,  I  felt  as  if  I  had  come  from  the  clouds,  where 
I  had  been  leading  a  romantic  life  for  ages,  to  a  bawling, 
splashing,  link-lighted,  umbrella-struggling,  hackney-coach- 
jostling,  patten-clinking,  muddy,  miserable  world. 

2.     Another  Night 

Somebody  said  to  me,  "Let  us  go  to  the  theatre,  Copper- 
field!"  There  was  no  bedroom  before  me,  but  again  the 
jingling  table  covered  with  glasses;  the  lamp;  Grainger  on 
my  right  hand,  Markham  on  my  left,  and  Steerforth  op- 
posite— all  sitting  in  a  mist,  and  a  long  way  off.  The 
theatre?  To  be  sure.  The  very  thing.  Come  along!  But 
they  must  excuse  me  if  I  saw  everybody  out  first,  and  turned 
the  lamp  off — in  case  of  fire. 

Owing  to  some  confusion  in  the  dark,  the  door  was  gone. 
I  was  feeling  for  it  in  the  window-curtains,  when  Steerforth, 
laughing,  took  me  by  the  arm  and  led  me  out.    We  went 


no      Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

down-stairs,  one  behind  another.  Near  the  bottom,  some- 
body fell,  and  rolled  down.  Somebody  else  said  it  was 
Copperfield.  I  was  angry  at  that  false  report,  until,  finding 
myself  on  my  back  in  the  passage,  I  began  to  think  there 
might  be  some  foundation  for  it. 

A  very  foggy  night,  with  great  rings  round  the  lamps  in 
the  streets !  There  was  an  indistinct  talk  of  its  being  wet. 
I  considered  it  frosty.  Steerforth  dusted  me  under  a  lamp- 
post, and  put  my  hat  into  shape,  which  somebody  produced 
from  somewhere  in  a  most  extraordinary  manner,  for  I 
hadn't  had  it  on  before.  Steerforth  then  said,  "You  are  all 
right,  Copperfield,  are  you  not?"  and  I  told  him,  "Never- 
berrer." 

A  man,  sitting  in  a  pigeon-hole  place,  looked  out  of  the 
fog,  and  took  money  from  somebody,  inquiring  if  I  was  one 
of  the  gentlemen  paid  for,  and  appearing  rather  doubtful 
(as  I  remember  in  the  glimpse  I  had  of  him)  whether  to  take 
the  money  for  me  or  not.  Shortly  afterwards,  we  were  very 
high  up  in  a  very  hot  theatre,  looking  down  into  a  large  pit, 
that  seemed  to  me  to  smoke;  the  people  with  whom  it  was 
crammed  were  so  indistinct.  There  was  a  great  stage,  too, 
looking  very  clean  and  smooth  after  the  streets;  and  there 
were  people  upon  it,  talking  about  something  or  other,  but 
not  at  all  intelligibly.  There  was  an  abundance  of  bright 
lights,  and  there  was  music,  and  there  were  ladies  down  in 
the  boxes,  and  I  don't  know  what  more.  The  whole  build- 
ing looked  to  me,  as  if  it  were  learning  to  swim;  it  conducted 
itself  in  such  an  unaccountable  manner,  when  I  tried  to 
steady  it. 

On  somebody's  motion,  we  resolved  to  go  down-stairs  to 
the  dress-boxes,  where  the  ladies  were.  A  gentleman  loung- 
ing, full  dressed,  on  a  sofa,  with  an  opera-glass  in  his  hand, 
passes  before  my  view,  and  also  my  own  figure  at  full  length 
in  a  glass.  Then  I  was  being  ushered  into  one  of  these  boxes, 
and  found  myself  saying  something  as  I  sat  down,  and  people 


The  Stage  in  Dickens's  Novels     m 

about  me  crying  "Silence"  to  somebody,  and  ladies  casting 
indignant  glances  at  me,  and — what!  yes! — Agnes,  sitting 
on  the  seat  before  me,  in  the  same  box,  with  a  lady  and 
gentleman  beside  her,  whom  I  didn't  know,  I  see  her  face 
now,  better  than  I  did  then,  I  dare  say,  with  its  indelible 
look  of  regret  and  wonder  turned  upon  me. 

"Agnes!"  I  said,  thickly,  " Lorblessmer !     Agnes!" 

"Hush !  Pray ! "  she  answered,  I  could  not  conceive  why. 
"You  disturb  the  company.    Look  at  the  stage!" 

I  tried,  on  her  injunction,  to  fix  it,  and  to  hear  something 
of  what  was  going  on  there,  but  quite  in  vain.  I  looked  at 
her  again  by-and-by,  and  saw  her  shrink  into  her  corner, 
and  put  her  gloved  hand  to  her  forehead. 

"Agnes!"  I  said.     "I'm  afraid  you'renorwell." 

"Yes,  yes.  Do  not  mind  me,  Trotwood,"  she  returned. 
"Listen !    Are  you  going  away  soon? " 

"Amigoarawaysoo?"  I  repeated. 

"Yes." 

I  had  a  stupid  intention  of  replying  that  I  was  going  to 
wait,  to  hand  her  down-stairs.  I  suppose  I  expressed  it, 
somehow;  for,  after  she  had  looked  at  me  attentively  for  a 
little  while,  she  appeared  to  understand,  and  replied  in  a  low 
tone : 

"I  know  you  will  do  as  I  ask  you,  if  I  tell  you  I  am  very 
earnest  in  it.  Go  away  now,  Trotwood,  for  my  sake,  and 
ask  your  friends  to  take  you  home." 

She  had  so  far  improved  me,  for  the  time,  that  though  I 
was  angry  with  her,  I  felt  ashamed,  and  with  a  short 
"Goori!"  (which  I  intended  for  "Good  night")  got  up  and 
went  away.  They  followed,  and  I  stepped  at  once  out  of  the 
box-door  into  my  bedroom,  where  Steerforth  was  with 
me,  helping  me  to  undress,  and  where  I  was  by  turns  telling 
him  that  Agnes  was  my  sister,  and  adjuring  him  to  bring 
the  corkscrew,  that  I  might  open  another  bottle  of  wine. 

From  "David  Copperfield." 


112      Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

Frederick  Dorrit  in  the  Orchestra  Pit 

The  old  man  looked  as  if  the  remote  high  gallery  windows, 
with  their  little  strip  of  sky,  might  have  been  the  point  of 
his  better  fortunes,  from  which  he  had  descended  until  he 
had  gradually  sunk  down  below  there  to  the  bottom.  He 
had  been  in  that  place  six  nights  a  week  for  many  years, 
but  had  never  been  observed  to  raise  his  eyes  above  his 
music-book,  and  was  confidently  believed  to  have  never 
seen  a  play.  There  were  legends  in  the  place  that  he  had 
not  so  much  as  known  the  popular  heroes  and  heroines  by 
sight,  and  that  the  low  comedian  had  "mugged"  at  him  in 
his  richest  manner  fifty  nights  for  a  wager,  and  he  had  shown 
no  trace  of  consciousness.  The  carpenters  had  a  joke  that 
he  was  dead  without  being  aware  of  it,  and  the  frequenters 
of  the  pit  supposed  him  to  pass  his  whole  life,  night  and  day, 
and  Sunday  and  all,  in  the  orchestra.  They  had  tried  him 
a  few  times  with  pinches  of  snuff  offered  over  the  rails,  and 
he  had  always  responded  to  this  attention  with  a  momen- 
tary waking-up  of  manner  that  had  the  pale  phantom  of  a 
gentleman  in  it;  beyond  this  he  never,  on  any  occasion, 
had  any  other  part  in  what  was  going  on  than  the  part 
written  out  for  the  clarionet :  in  private  life,  where  there  was 
no  part  for  the  clarionet,  he  had  no  part  at  all. 

From  "Little  Dorrit." 

The  Waldengarver 

This  is  the  tale  told  by  Pip  who  had  known  the  Wal- 
dengarver when,  under  the  humbler  name  of  Wopsle, 
he  was  clerk  of  the  church  back  home.  Pip  had  at- 
tended for  a  time  a  village  school  somewhat  vaguely 
conducted  by  Mr.  Wopsle's  great-aunt.  The  Mr.  Wopsle 


The  Stage  in  Dickens's  Novels     113 

of  those  days,  had,  in  addition  to  a  Roman  nose  and  a 
large,  shining,  bald  forehead,  "a  deep  voice  which  he 
was  uncommonly  proud  of;  indeed  it  was  understood 
among  his  acquaintance  that  if  you  could  only  give  him 
his  head,  he  would  read  the  clergyman  into  fits;  he 
himself  confessed  that  if  the  Church  was  'thrown 
open,'  meaning  to  competition,  he  would  not  despair 
of  making  his  mark  in  it.  The  church  not  being 
'thrown  open,'  he  was,  as  I  have  said,  our  clerk.  But 
he  punished  the  Amens  tremendously;  and  when  he 
gave  out  the  Psalm — always  giving  the  whole  verse — 
he  looked  all  around  the  church  first,  as  much  as  to 
say:  'You  have  heard  our  friend  overhead;  oblige  me 
with  your  opinion  of  this  style.' "  Now,  lifted  by  his 
great  expectations,  Pip  is  in  London  learning  to  be  a 
gentleman,  and  on  him,  much  embarrassed,  calls  his 
dear  Joe  Gargery,  the  blacksmith — awkward,  patient, 
gentle  Joe,  who,  inexplicably,  has  come  up  to  London 
in  company  with  Mr.  Wopsle. 

1 — The  Most  Melancholy  Dane  of  All 

This  avenging  phantom  was  ordered  to  be  on  duty  at 
eight  on  Tuesday  morning  in  the  hall  (it  was  two  feet 
square,  as  charged  for  floorcloth),  and  Herbert  suggested 
certain  things  for  breakfast  that  he  thought  Joe  would  like. 
While  I  felt  sincerely  obliged  to  him  for  being  so  interested 
and  considerate,  I  had  an  odd  half -provoked  sense  of  sus- 
picion upon  me,  that  if  Joe  had  been  coming  to  see  him,  he 
wouldn't  have  been  quite  so  brisk  about  it. 

However,  I  came  into  town  on  the  Monday  night  to  be 

8 


114     Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

ready  for  Joe,  and  I  got  up  early  in  the  morning,  and  caused 
the  sitting-room  and  breakfast-table  to  assume  their  most 
splendid  appearance.  Unfortunately  the  morning  was 
drizzly,  and  an  angel  could  not  have  concealed  the  fact 
that  Barnard  was  shedding  sooty  tears  outside  the  window, 
like  some  weak  giant  of  a  Sweep. 

As  the  time  approached  I  should  have  liked  to  run  away, 
but  the  Avenger  pursuant  to  orders  was  in  the  hall,  and 
presently  I  heard  Joe,  on  the  staircase.  I  knew  it  was  Joe, 
by  his  clumsy  manner  of  coming  up-stairs — his  state  boots 
being  always  too  big  for  him — and  by  the  time  it  took 
him  to  read  the  names  on  the  other  floors  in  the  course  of 
his  ascent.  When  at  last  he  stopped  outside  our  door,  I 
could  hear  his  finger  tracing  over  the  painted  letters  of  my 
name,  and  I  afterwards  distinctly  heard  his  breathing  in 
at  the  keyhole.  Finally  he  gave  a  faint  single  rap,  and 
Pepper — such  was  the  compromising  name  of  the  avenging 
boy — announced  "Mr.  Gargery!"  I  thought  he  never 
would  have  done  wiping  his  feet,  and  that  I  must  have  gone 
out  to  lift  him  off  the  mat,  but  at  last  he  came  in. 

"Joe,  how  are  you,  Joe?  " 

"Pip,  how  AIR  you,  Pip?" 

With  his  good  honest  face  all  glowing  and  shining,  and 
his  hat  put  down  on  the  floor  between  us,  he  caught  both 
my  hands  and  worked  them  straight  up  and  down,  as  if  I 
had  been  the  last-patented  Pump. 

"I  am  glad  to  see  you,  Joe.    Give  me  your  hat." 

But  Joe,  taking  it  up  carefully  with  both  hands,  like  a 
bird's-nest  with  eggs  in  it,  wouldn't  hear  of  parting  with 
that  piece  of  property,  and  persisted  in  standing  talking  over 
it  in  a  most  uncomfortable  way. 

"Which  you  have  that  growed,"  said  Joe,  "and  that 
swelled,  and  that  gentle-folked";  Joe  considered  a  little 
before  he  discovered  this  word;  "as,  to  be  sure,  you  are  a 
honour  to  your  king  and  country." 


The  Stage  in  Dickens's  Novels     115 

"And  you,  Joe,  look  wonderfully  well." 

"Thank  God,"  said  Joe,  "I'm  ekerval  to  most.  And 
your  sister,  she's  no  worse  than  she  were.  And  Biddy, 
she's  ever  right  and  ready.  And  all  friends  is  no  backerder, 
if  not  no  forarder.    'Ceptin'  Wopsle:  he's  had  a  drop." 

All  this  time  (still  with  both  hands  taking  great  care  of 
the  bird's-nest),  Joe  was  rolling  his  eyes  round  and  round  the 
room,  and  round  and  round  the  flowered  pattern  of  my 
dressing-gown. 

"Had  a  drop,  Joe?" 

"Why,  yes,"  said  Joe,  lowering  his  voice,  "he's  left  the 
Church  and  went  into  the  playacting.  Which  the  playacting 
have  likewise  brought  him  to  London  along  with  me.  And 
his  wish  were,"  said  Joe,  getting  the  bird's-nest  under  his 
left  arm  for  the  moment,  and  groping  in  it  for  an  egg  with  his 
right;  "if  no  offence,  as  I  would  'and  you  that." 

I  took  what  Joe  gave  me,  and  found  it  to  be  the  crumpled 
playbill  of  a  small  metropolitan  theatre,  announcing  the 
first  appearance,  in  that  very  week,  of  "the  celebrated  Pro- 
vincial Amateur  of  Roscian  renown,  whose  unique  perform- 
ance in  the  highest  tragic  walk  of  our  National  Bard  has 
lately  occasioned  so  great  a  sensation  in  local  dramatic 
circles." 

"Were  you  at  this  performance,  Joe.''"  I  inquired. 

"I  were,"  said  Joe,  with  emphasis  and  solemnity. 

"Was  there  a  great  sensation?" 

"Why,"  said  Joe,  "yes,  there  certainly  were  a  peck  of 
orange-peel.  Partickler  when  he  see  the  ghost.  Though 
I  put  it  to  yourself,  sir,  whether  it  were  calc'lated  to  keep 
a  man  up  to  his  work  with  a  good  hart,  to  be  continiwally 
cutting  in  betwixt  him  and  the  Ghost  with  'Amen!'  A 
man  may  have  had  a  misfortun'  and  been  in  the  Church," 
said  Joe,  lowering  his  voice  to  an  argumentative  and  feeling 
tone,  "but  that  is  no  reason  why  you  should  put  him  out 
at  such  a  time.    Which  I  meantersay,  if  the  ghost  of  a  man's 


ii6      Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

own  father  cannot  be  allowed  to  claim  his  attention,  what 
can,  Sir?  Still  more,  when  his  mourning  'at  is  unfortunately 
made  so  small  as  that  the  weight  of  the  black  feathers  brings 
it  off,  try  to  keep  it  on  how  you  may." 


As  we  contemplated  the  fire,  and  as  I  thought  what  a 
diflBcult  vision  to  realise  this  same  Capital  sometimes  was, 
1  put  my  hands  in  my  pockets.  A  folded  piece  of  paper  in 
one  of  them  attracted  my  attention.  I  opened  it  and  found 
it  to  be  the  playbill  I  had  received  from  Joe,  relative  to  the 
celebrated  provincial  amateur  of  Roscian  renown.  "And 
bless  my  heart,"  I  involuntarily  added  aloud/'it's  to-night!" 

This  changed  the  subject  in  an  instant,  and  made  us 
hurriedly  resolve  to  go  to  the  play.  So,  when  I  had  pledged 
myself  to  comfort  and  abet  Herbert  in  the  affair  of  his  heart 
by  all  practicable  and  impracticable  means,  and  when  Her- 
bert had  told  me  that  his  affianced  already  knew  me  by 
reputation,  and  that  I  should  be  presented  to  her,  and  when 
we  had  warmly  shaken  hands  upon  our  mutual  confidence, 
we  blew  out  our  candles,  made  up  our  fire,  locked  our  door, 
and  issued  forth  in  quest  of  Mr.  Wopsle  and  Denmark. 

On  our  arrival  in  Denmark,  we  found  the  king  and  queen 
of  that  country  elevated  in  two  arm-chairs  on  a  kitchen- 
table,  holding  a  Court.  The  whole  of  the  Danish  nobility 
were  in  attendance;  consisting  of  a  noble  boy  in  the  wash- 
leather  boots  of  a  gigantic  ancestor,  a  venerable  Peer  with 
a  dirty  face,  who  seemed  to  have  risen  from  the  people  late 
in  life,  and  the  Danish  chivalry  with  a  comb  in  its  hair  and 
a  pair  of  white  silk  legs,  and  presenting  on  the  whole  a  femi- 
nine appearance.  My  gifted  townsman  stood  gloomily  apart, 
with  folded  arms,  and  I  could  have  wished  that  his  curls  and 
forehead  had  been  more  probable. 

Several  curious  little  circumstances  transpired  as  the 
action  proceeded.    The  late  king  of  the  country  not  only 


The  Stage  in  Dickens's  Novels      117 

appeared  to  have  been  troubled  with  a  cough  at  the  time 
of  his  decease,  but  to  have  taken  it  with  him  to  the  tomb, 
and  to  have  brought  it  back.  The  royal  phantom  also 
carried  a  ghostly  manuscript  round  its  truncheon,  to  which 
it  had  the  appearance  of  occasionally  referring,  and  that, 
too,  with  an  air  of  anxiety  and  a  tendency  to  lose  the  place 
of  reference  which  were  suggestive  of  a  state  of  mortality. 
It  was  this,  I  conceive,  which  led  to  the  Shade's  being  ad- 
vised by  the  gallery  to  "turn  over!" — a  recommendation 
which  it  took  extremely  ill.  It  was  likewise  to  be  noted  of 
this  majestic  spirit  that  whereas  it  always  appeared  with  an 
air  of  having  been  out  a  long  time  and  walked  an  immense 
distance,  it  perceptibly  came  from  a  closely  contiguous 
wall.  This  occasioned  its  terrors  to  be  received  derisively. 
The  Queen  of  Denmark,  a  very  buxom  lady,  though  no 
doubt  historically  brazen,  was  considered  by  the  public  to 
have  too  much  brass  about  her;  her  chin  being  attached  to 
her  diadem  by  a  broad  band  of  that  metal  (as  if  she  had  a 
gorgeous  toothache),  her  waist  being  encircled  by  another, 
and  each  of  her  arms  by  another,  so  that  she  was  openly 
mentioned  as  "the  kettledrum."  The  noble  boy  in  the 
ancestral  boots,  was  inconsistent;  representing  himself,  as  it 
were  in  one  breath,  as  an  able  seaman,  a  strolling  actor,  a 
gravedigger,  a  clergyman,  and  a  person  of  the  utmost  im- 
portance at  a  Court  fencing-match,  on  the  authority 
of  whose  practised  eye  and  nice  discrimination  the 
finest  strokes  were  judged.  This  gradually  led  to  a  want 
of  toleration  for  him,  and  even — on  his  being  detected  in 
holy  orders,  and  declining  to  perform  the  funeral  service — 
to  the  general  indignation  taking  the  form  of  nuts.  Lastly, 
Ophelia  was  a  prey  to  such  slow  musical  madness,  that  when, 
in  course  of  time,  she  had  taken  off  her  white  muslin  scarf, 
folded  it  up,  and  buried  it,  a  sulky  man  who  had  been  long 
cooling  his  impatient  nose  against  an  iron  bar  in  the  front 
row  of  the  gallery,  growled,  "Now  the  baby's  put  to  bed, 


ii8      Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

let's  have  supper ! "  Which,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  was  out  of 
keeping. 

Upon  my  unfortunate  townsman  all  these  incidents  ac- 
cumulated with  playful  effect.  Whenever  that  undecided 
Prince  had  to  ask  a  question  or  state  a  doubt,  the  public 
helped  him  out  with  it.  As  for  example;  on  the  question 
whether  'twas  nobler  in  the  mind  to  suffer,  some  roared  yes, 
and  some  no,  and  some  inclining  to  both  opinions  said  "toss 
up  for  it;"  and  quite  a  Debating  Society  arose.  When  he 
asked  what  should  such  fellows  as  he  do  crawling  between 
earth  and  heaven,  he  was  encouraged  with  loud  cries  of 
"Hear,  hear!"  When  he  appeared  with  his  stocking  dis- 
ordered (its  disorder  expressed,  according  to  usage,  by  one 
very  neat  fold  in  the  top,  which  I  suppose  to  be  always  got 
up  with  a  flat  iron),  a  conversation  took  place  in  the  gallery 
respecting  the  paleness  of  his  leg,  and  whether  it  was  occa- 
sioned by  the  turn  the  ghost  had  given  him.  On  his  taking 
the  recorders — very  like  a  little  black  flute  that  had  just 
been  played  in  the  orchestra  and  handed  out  at  the  door — 
he  was  called  upon  unanimously  for  Rule  Britannia.  When 
he  recommended  the  player  not  to  saw  the  air  thus,  the  sulky 
man  said,  "And  don't  you  do  it,  neither;  you're  a  deal  worse 
than  him!"  And  I  grieve  to  add  that  peals  of  laughter 
greeted  Mr.  Wopsle  on  every  one  of  these  occasions. 

But  his  greatest  trials  were  in  the  churchyard :  which  had 
the  appearance  of  a  primeval  forest,  with  a  kind  of  small 
ecclesiastical  wash-house  on  one  side,  and  a  turnpike  gate 
on  the  other.  Mr.  Wopsle,  in  a  comprehensive  black  cloak, 
being  descried  entering  at  the  turnpike,  the  gravedigger 
was  admonished  in  a  friendly  way,  "Look  out!  Here's  the 
undertaker  a  coming,  to  see  how  you're  getting  on  with  your 
work!"  I  believe  it  is  well  known  in  a  constitutional  coun- 
try that  Mr.  Wopsle  could  not  possibly  have  returned  the 
skull,  after  moralising  over  it,  without  dusting  his  fingers  on 
a  white  napkin  taken  from  his  breast;  but  even  that  inno- 


The  Stage  in  Dickens's  Novels     119 

cent  and  indispensable  action  did  not  pass  without  the 
comment  "Wai-ter!"  The  arrival  of  the  body  for  inter- 
ment (in  an  empty  black  box  with  the  lid  tumbling  open), 
was  the  signal  for  a  general  joy  which  was  much  enhanced 
by  the  discovery,  among  the  bearers,  of  an  individual  obnox- 
ious to  identification.  The  joy  attended  Mr.  Wopsle 
through  his  struggle  with  Laertes  on  the  brink  of  the  or- 
chestra and  the  grave,  and  slackened  no  more  until  he  had 
tumbled  the  king  off  the  kitchen-table,  and  had  died  by 
inches  from  the  ankles  upward. 

We  had  made  some  pale  efforts  in  the  beginning  to  ap- 
plaud Mr.  Wopsle;  but  they  were  too  hopeless  to  be  per- 
sisted in.  Therefore  we  had  sat,  feeling  keenly  for  him,  but 
laughing,  nevertheless,  from  ear  to  ear.  I  laughed  in  spite 
of  myself  all  the  time,  the  whole  thing  was  so  droll;  and  yet 
I  had  a  latent  impression  that  there  was  something  decidedly 
fine  in  Mr.  Wopsle's  elocution — not  for  old  associations' sake, 
I  am  afraid,  but  because  it  was  very  slow,  very  dreary, 
very  up-hill  and  down-hill,  and  very  unlike  any  way  in  which 
any  man  in  any  natural  circumstances  of  life  or  death 
ever  expressed  himself  about  anything.  When  the  tragedy 
was  over,  and  he  had  been  called  for  and  hooted,  I  said  to 
Herbert,  "Let  us  go  at  once,  or  perhaps  we  shall  meet  him." 

We  made  all  the  haste  we  could  down-stairs,  but  we  were 
not  quick  enough  either.  Standing  at  the  door  was  a 
Jewish  man  with  an  unnatural  heavy  smear  of  eyebrow, 
who  caught  my  eyes  as  we  advanced,  and  said,  when  we 
came  up  with  him: 

"Mr.  Pip  and  friend?" 

Identity  of  Mr.  Pip  and  friend  confessed. 

"Mr.  Waldengarver,"  said  the  man,  "would  be  glad 
to  have  the  honour." 

"Waldengarver?"  I  repeated — when  Herbert  murmured 
in  my  ear,  "Probably  Wopsle." 

"Oh!"  said  L    "Yes.    Shall  we  follow  you?" 


120      Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

"A  few  steps,  please."  When  we  were  in  a  side  alley, 
he  turned  and  asked,  "How  do  you  think  he  looked? — / 
dressed  him." 

I  don't  know  what  he  had  looked  like,  except  a  funeral; 
with  the  addition  of  a  large  Danish  sun  or  star  hanging 
round  his  neck  by  a  blue  ribbon,  that  had  given  him  the 
appearance  of  being  insured  in  some  extraordinary  Fire 
Office.    But  I  said  he  had  looked  very  nice. 

"When  he  come  to  the  grave,"  said  our  conductor,  "he 
showed  his  cloak  beautiful.  But,  judging  from  the  wing, 
it  looked  to  me  that  when  he  see  the  ghost  in  the  queen's 
apartment,  he  might  have  made  more  of  his  stockings." 

I  modestly  assented,  and  we  all  fell  through  a  little  dirty 
swing  door,  into  a  sort  of  hot  packing-case  immediately 
behind  it.  Here  Mr.  Wopsle  was  divesting  himself  of  his 
Danish  garments,  and  here  there  was  just  room  for  us  to 
look  at  him  over  one  another's  shoulders,  by  keeping  the 
packing-case  door,  or  lid,  wide  open. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  Mr.  Wopsle,  "I  am  proud  to  see  you. 
I  hope,  Mr.  Pip,  you  will  excuse  my  sending  round.  I  had 
the  happiness  to  know  you  in  former  times,  and  the  Drama 
has  ever  had  a  claim  which  has  ever  been  acknowledged,  on 
the  noble  and  the  affluent." 

Meanwhile,  Mr.  Waldengarver,  in  a  frightful  perspira- 
tion, was  trying  to  get  himself  out  of  his  princely  sables. 

"Skin  the  stockings  off,  Mr.  Waldengarver,"  said  the 
owner  of  that  property,  "or  you'll  bust  'em.  Bust  'em, 
and  you'll  bust  five-and-thirty  shillings.  Shakspeare  never 
was  complimented  with  a  finer  pair.  Keep  quiet  in  your 
chair  now,  and  leave  'em  to  me." 

With  that,  he  went  upon  his  knees,  and  began  to  flay  his 
victim;  who,  on  the  first  stocking  coming  off,  would  cer- 
tainly have  fallen  over  backward  with  his  chair,  but  for 
there  being  no  room  to  fall  anyhow. 

I  had  been  afraid  until  then  to  say  a  word  about  the  play. 


The  Stage  in  Dickens's  Novels     121 

But  then,  Mr.  Waldengarver  looked  up  at  us  complacently, 
and  said: 

"  Gentlemen,  how  did  it  seem  to  you  to  go,  in  front? " 

Herbert  said  from  behind  (at  the  same  time  poking  me), 
"capitally."    So  I  said  "capitally." 

"How  did  you  like  my  reading  of  the  character,  gentle- 
men?" said  Mr.  Waldengarver,  almost,  if  not  quite,  with 
patronage 

Herbert  said  from  behind  (again  poking  me),  "massive 
and  concrete."  So  I  said  boldly,  as  if  I  had  originated  it, 
and  must  beg  to  insist  upon  it,  "massive  and  concrete." 

"I  am  glad  to  have  your  approbation,  gentlemen,"  said 
Mr.  Waldengarver,  with  an  air  of  dignity,  in  spite  of  his 
being  ground  against  the  wall  at  the  time,  and  holding  on 
by  the  seat  of  the  chair. 

"But  I'll  tell  you  one  thing,  Mr.  Waldengarver,"  said 
the  man  who  was  on  his  knees,  "in  which  you're  out  in  your 
reading.  Now  mind!  I  don't  care  who  says  contrary;  I 
tell  you  so.  You're  out  in  your  reading  of  Hamlet  when 
you  get  your  legs  in  profile.  The  last  Hamlet  as  I  dressed, 
made  the  same  mistakes  in  his  reading  at  rehearsal,  till  I 
got  him  to  put  a  large  red  wafer  on  each  of  his  shins,  and 
then  at  that  rehearsal  (which  was  the  last)  I  went  in  front, 
sir,  to  the  back  of  the  pit,  and  whenever  his  reading  brought 
him  into  profile,  I  called  out,  'I  don't  see  no  wafers!'  And 
at  night  his  reading  was  lovely." 

Mr.  Waldengarver  smiled  at  me,  as  much  as  to  say  "a 
faithful  dependent — I  overlook  his  folly;"  and  then  said 
aloud,  "My  view  is  a  little  too  classic  and  thoughtful  for 
them  here;  but  they  will  improve,  they  will  improve." 

Herbert  and  I  said  together.  Oh,  no  doubt  they  would 
improve. 

"Did  you  observe,  gentlemen,"  said  Mr.  Waldengarver, 
"that  there  was  a  man  in  the  gallery  who  endeavoured  to 
cast  derision  on  the  service — I  mean,  the  representation?" 


122      Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

We  basely  replied  that  we  rather  thought  we  had  noticed 
such  a  man.    I  added,  "He  was  drunk,  no  doubt." 

"Oh,  dear  no,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Wopsle,  "not  drunk.  His 
employer  would  see  to  that,  sir.  His  employer  would  not 
allow  him  to  be  drunk." 

"You  know  his  employer?"  said  I. 

Mr.  Wopsle  shut  his  eyes,  and  opened  them  again;  per- 
forming both  ceremonies  very  slowly.  "You  must  have 
observed,  gentlemen,"  said  he,  "an  ignorant  and  blatant 
ass,  with  a  rasping  throat  and  a  countenance  expressive  of 
low  malignity,  who  went  through — I  will  not  say  sustained 
— the  role  (if  I  may  use  a  French  expression)  of  Claudius 
King  of  Denmark.  That  is  his  employer,  gentlemen.  Such 
is  the  profession!" 

Without  distinctly  knowing  whether  I  should  have  been 
more  sorry  for  Mr.  Wopsle  if  he  had  been  in  despair,  I  was 
so  sorry  for  him  as  it  was,  that  I  took  the  opportunity  of 
his  turning  round  to  have  his  braces  put  on — which  jostled 
us  out  at  the  doorway — to  ask  Herbert  what  he  thought  of 
having  him  home  to  supper?  Herbert  said  he  thought  it 
would  be  kind  to  do  so;  therefore  I  invited  him,  and  he 
went  to  Barnard's  with  us,  wrapped  up  to  the  eyes,  and  we 
did  our  best  for  him,  and  he  sat  until  two  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  reviewing  his  success  and  developing  his  plans. 
I  forget  in  detail  what  they  were,  but  I  have  a  general 
recollection  that  he  was  to  begin  with  reviving  the  Drama, 
and  to  end  with  crushing  it;  inasmuch  as  his  decease  would 
leave  it  utterly  bereft  and  without  a  chance  or  hope. 

2 — The  Decline  of  the  Drama 

I  dined  long  afterwards  at  what  Herbert  and  I  used  to 
call  a  Geographical  chop-house — where  there  were  maps  of 
the  world  in  porter-pot  rims  on  every  half-yard  of  the  table- 
cloths, and  charts  of  gravy  on  every  one  of  the  knives — to 


The  Stage  in  Dickens's  Novels     123 

this  day  there  is  scarcely  a  single  chop-house  within  the 
Lord  Mayor's  dominions  which  is  not  Geographical — and 
wore  out  the  time  in  dozing  over  crumbs,  staring  at  gas, 
and  baking  in  a  hot  blast  of  dinners.  By-and-by,  I  roused 
myself  and  went  to  the  play. 

There,  I  found  a  virtuous  boatswain  in  his  Majesty's 
service — a  most  excellent  man,  though  I  could  have  wished 
his  trousers  not  quite  so  tight  in  some  places  and  not  quite 
so  loose  in  others — who  knocked  all  the  little  men's  hats 
over  their  eyes,  though  he  was  very  generous  and  brave,  and 
who  wouldn't  hear  of  anybody's  paying  taxes,  though  he 
was  very  patriotic.  He  had  a  bag  of  money  in  his  pocket, 
hke  a  pudding  in  the  cloth,  and  on  that  property  married  a 
young  person  in  bed-furniture,  with  great  rejoicings;  the 
whole  population  of  Portsmouth  (nine  in  number  at  the  last 
Census)  turning  out  on  the  beach  to  rub  their  own  hands  and 
shake  everybody  else's,  and  sing,  "Fill,  fill!"  A  certain 
dark-complexioned  Swab,  however,  who  wouldn't  fill,  or  do 
anything  else  that  was  proposed  to  him,  and  whose  heart 
was  openly  stated  (by  the  boatswain)  to  be  as  black  as  his 
figure-head,  proposed  to  two  other  Swabs  to  get  all  mankind 
into  difficulties;  which  was  so  effectually  done  (the  Swab 
family  having  considerable  political  influence)  that  it  took 
half  the  evening  to  set  things  right,  and  then  it  was  only 
brought  about  through  an  honest  little  grocer  with  a  white 
hat,  black  gaiters,  and  red  nose,  getting  into  a  clock,  with  a 
gridiron,  and  listening,  and  coming  out,  and  knocking  every- 
body down  from  behind  with  the  gridiron  whom  he  couldn't 
confute  with  what  he  had  overheard.  This  led  to  Mr. 
Wopsle's  (who  had  never  been  heard  of  before)  coming  in 
with  a  star  and  garter  on,  as  a  plenipotentiary  of  great 
power  direct  from  the  Admiralty,  to  say  that  the  Swabs 
were  all  to  go  to  prison  on  the  spot,  and  that  he  had  brought 
the  boatswain  down  the  Union  Jack,  as  a  slight  acknowledg- 
ment of  his  public  services.    The  boatswain,  unmanned  for 


124     Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

the  first  time,  respectfully  dried  his  eyes  on  the  Jack,  and 
then  cheering  up  and  addressing  Mr.  Wopsle  as  Your 
Honour,  solicited  permission  to  take  him  by  the  fin.  Mr. 
Wopsle  conceding  his  fin  with  a  gracious  dignity,  was  im- 
mediately shoved  into  a  dusty  corner  while  everybody 
danced  a  hornpipe;  and  from  that  corner,  surveying  the 
public  with  a  discontented  eye,  became  aware  of  me. 

The  second  piece  was  the  last  new  grand  comic  Christ- 
mas pantomime,  in  the  first  scene  of  which  it  pained  me  to 
suspect  that  I  detected  Mr.  Wopsle,  with  red  worsted  legs 
under  a  highly  magnified  phosphoric  countenance  and  a 
shock  of  red  curtain-fringe  for  his  hair,  engaged  in  the 
manufacture  of  thunderbolts  in  a  mine,  and  displaying 
great  cowardice  when  his  gigantic  master  came  home 
(very  hoarse)  to  dinner.  But  he  presently  presented  him- 
self under  worthier  circumstances;  for,  the  Genius  of  Youth- 
ful Love  being  in  want  of  assistance — on  account  of  the 
parental  brutality  of  an  ignorant  farmer  who  opposed  the 
choice  of  his  daughter's  heart,  by  purposely  falling  upon  the 
object  in  a  flour  sack  out  of  the  first-floor  window — sum- 
moned a  sententious  Enchanter;  and  he,  coming  up  from 
the  antipodes  rather  unsteadily,  after  an  apparently  violent 
journey,  proved  to  be  Mr.  Wopsle  in  a  high-crowned  hat, 
with  a  necromantic  work  in  one  volume  under  his  arm.  The 
business  of  this  enchanter  on  earth,  being  principally  to  be 
butted  at,  danced  at,  and  flashed  at  with  fires  of  various 
colours,  he  had  a  good  deal  of  time  on  his  hands. 

From  "Great  Expectations." 

DULLBOROUGH    ToWN 

It  lately  happened  that  I  found  myself  rambling  about  the 
scenes  among  which  my  earliest  days  were  passed;  scenes 
from  which  I  departed  when  I  was  a  child,  and  which  I 
did  not  revisit  until  I  was  a  man.     This  is  no  uncommon 


The  Stage  in  Dickens's  Novels     125 

chance,  but  one  that  befalls  some  of  us  any  day;  perhaps  it 
may  not  be  quite  uninteresting  to  compare  notes  with  the 
reader  respecting  an  experience  so  familiar  and  a  journey 
so  uncommercial. 

I  call  my  boyhood's  home  (and  I  feel  like  a  Tenor  in  an 
English  Opera  when  I  mention  it)  Dullborough.  Most  of  us 
come  from  Dullborough  who  come  from  a  country  town. 

The  Theatre  was  in  existence,  I  found,  on  asking  the  fish- 
monger, who  had  a  compact  show  of  stock  in  his  window, 
consisting  of  a  sole  and  a  quart  of  shrimps — and  I  resolved 
to  comfort  my  mind  by  going  to  look  at  it.  Richard  the 
Third,  in  a  very  uncomfortable  cloak,  had  first  appeared  to 
me  there,  and  had  made  my  heart  leap  with  terror  by  back- 
ing up  against  the  stage-box  in  which  I  was  posted,  while 
struggling  for  life  against  the  virtuous  Richmond.  It  was 
within  those  walls  that  I  had  learnt  as  from  a  page  of  English 
history,  how  that  wicked  King  slept  in  war-time  on  a  sofa 
much  too  short  for  him,  and  how  fearfully  his  conscience 
troubled  his  boots.  There,  too,  had  I  first  seen  the  funny 
countryman,  but  countryman  of  noble  principles,  in  a  flow- 
ered waistcoat,  crunch  up  his  little  hat  and  throw  it  on  the 
ground,  and  pull  off  his  coat,  saying,  "Dom  thee,  squire, 
coom  on  with  thy  fistes  then!"  At  which  the  lovely  young 
woman  who  kept  company  with  him  (and  who  went  out 
gleaning,  in  a  narrow  white  muslin  apron  with  five  beautiful 
bars  of  five  different-coloured  ribbons  across  it)  was  so 
frightened  for  his  sake,  that  she  fainted  away.  Many  won- 
drous secrets  of  Nature  had  I  come  to  the  knowledge  of  in 
that  sanctuary :  of  which  not  the  least  terrific  were,  that  the 
witches  in  Macbeth  bore  an  awful  resemblance  to  the  Thanes 
and  other  proper  inhabitants  of  Scotland;  and  that  the  good 
King  Duncan  couldn't  rest  in  his  grave,  but  was  constantly 
coming  out  of  it  and  calling  himself  somebody  else.  To  the 
Theatre,  therefore,  I  repaired  for  consolation.  But  I  found 
very  little,  for  it  was  in  a  bad  and  declining  way.    A  dealer 


126      Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

in  wine  and  bottled  beer  had  already  squeezed  his  trade  into 
the  box-oflSce,  and  the  theatrical  money  was  taken — when  it 
came — in  a  kind  of  meat-safe  in  the  passage.  The  dealer  in 
wine  and  bottled  beer  must  have  insinuated  himself  under 
the  stage  too;  for  he  announced  that  he  had  various  de- 
scriptions of  alcoholic  drinks  "in  the  wood,"  and  there  was 
no  possible  stowage  for  the  wood  anywhere  else.  Evidently, 
he  was  by  degrees  eating  the  establishment  away  to  the  core, 
and  would  soon  have  sole  possession  of  it.  It  was  To  Let, 
and  hopelessly  so,  for  its  old  purposes;  and  there  had  been 
no  entertainment  within  its  walls  for  a  long  time  except  a 
Panorama;  and  even  that  had  been  announced  as  "pleas- 
ingly instructive,"  and  I  know  too  well  the  fatal  meaning 
and  the  leaden  import  of  those  terrible  expressions.  No, 
there  was  no  comfort  in  the  Theatre.  It  was  mysteriously 
gone,  like  my  own  youth.  Unlike  my  own  youth,  it  might 
be  coming  back  some  day;  but  there  was  little  promise  of  it. 

From  "The  Uncommercial  Traveller." 

In  the  French-Flemish  Country 

"It  is  neither  a  bold  nor  a  diversified  country,"  said  I  to 
myself,  "this  country  which  is  three-quarters  Flemish,  and 
a  quarter  French;  yet  it  has  its  attractions  too.  Though 
great  lines  of  railway  traverse  it,  the  trains  leave  it  behind, 
and  go  puffing  off  to  Paris  and  the  South,  to  Belgium  and 
Germany,  to  the  Northern  Sea-Coast  of  France,  and  to 
England,  and  merely  smoke  it  a  little  in  passing.  Then  I 
don't  know  it,  and  that  is  a  good  reason  for  being  here;  and 
I  can't  pronounce  half  the  long  queer  names  I  see  inscribed 
over  the  shops,  and  that  is  another  good  reason  for  being 
here,  since  I  surely  ought  to  learn  how."  In  short,  I  was 
"here,"  and  I  wanted  an  excuse  for  not  going  away  from 
here,  and  I  made  it  to  my  satisfaction,  and  stayed  here. 

What  part  in  my  decision  was  borne  by  Monsieur  P. 


The  Stage  in  Dickens's  Novels     127 

Salcy,  is  of  no  moment,  though  I  own  to  encountering  that 
gentleman's  name  on  a  red  bill  on  the  wall,  before  I  made  up 
my  mind.  Monsieur  P.  Salcy,  "par  permission  de  M.  le 
Maire,"  had  established  his  theatre  in  the  whitewashed 
Hotel  de  Ville,  on  the  steps  of  which  illustrious  edifice  I 
stood.  And  Monsieur  P.  Salcy,  privileged  director  of  such 
theatre,  situate  in  "the  first  theatrical  arrondissement  of  the 
department  of  the  North,"  invited  French-Flemish  mankind 
to  come  and  partake  of  the  intellectual  banquet  provided  by 
his  family  of  dramatic  artists,  fifteen  subjects  in  number. 
"La  Famille  P.  Salcy,  composee  d'artistes  dramatiques,  au 
nombre  de  15  sujets." 

There  was  a  Fair  besides.  The  double  persuasion  being 
irresistible,  and  my  sponge  being  left  behind  at  the  last 
Hotel,  I  made  the  tour  of  the  little  town  to  buy  another. 
In  the  small  sunny  shops — mercers,  opticians,  and  druggist- 
grocers,  with  here  and  there  an  emporium  of  religious  images 
— the  gravest  of  old  spectacled  Flemish  husbands  and  wives 
sat  contemplating  one  another  across  bare  counters,  while 
the  wasps,  who  seemed  to  have  taken  military  possession  of 
the  town,  and  to  have  placed  it  under  wasp-martial  law, 
executed  warlike  manoeuvres  in  the  windows.  Other  shops 
the  wasps  had  entirely  to  themselves,  and  nobody  cared  and 
nobody  came  when  I  beat  with  a  five-franc  piece  upon  the 
board  of  custom.  What  I  sought  was  no  more  to  be  found 
than  if  I  had  sought  a  nugget  of  Calif ornian  gold :  so  I  went, 
spongeless,  to  pass  the  evening  with  the  Family  P.  Salcy. 

The  members  of  the  Family  P.  Salcy  were  so  fat  and  so 
like  one  another — fathers,  mothers,  sisters,  brothers,  uncles, 
and  aunts — that  I  think  the  local  audience  were  much  con- 
fused about  the  plot  of  the  piece  under  representation,  and 
to  the  last  expected  that  everybody  must  turn  out  to  be 
the  long-lost  relative  of  everybody  else.  The  Theatre  was 
established  on  the  top  story  of  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  and  was 
approached  by  a  long  bare  staircase,  whereon,  in  an  airy 


128      Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

situation,  one  of  the  P.  Salcy  Family — a  stout  gentleman 
imperfectly  repressed  by  a  belt — took  the  money.  This 
occasioned  the  greatest  excitement  of  the  evening;  for,  no 
sooner  did  the  curtain  rise  on  the  introductory  Vaudeville, 
and  reveal  in  the  person  of  the  young  lover  (singing  a  very 
short  song  with  his  eyebrows)  apparently  the  very  same 
identical  stout  gentleman  imperfectly  repressed  by  a  belt, 
than  everybody  rushed  out  to  the  paying-place,  to  ascertain 
whether  he  could  possibly  have  put  on  that  dress-coat,  that 
clear  complexion,  and  those  arched  black  vocal  eyebrows,  in 
so  short  a  space  of  time.  It  then  became  manifest  that  this 
was  another  stout  gentleman  imperfectly  repressed  by  a 
belt:  to  whom,  before  the  spectators  had  recovered  their 
presence  of  mind,  entered  a  third  stout  gentleman  imper- 
fectly repressed  by  a  belt,  exactly  like  him.  These  two 
"subjects,"  making  with  the  money-taker  three  of  the  an- 
nounced fifteen,  fell  into  conversation  touching  a  charming 
young  widow;  who,  presently  appearing,  proved  to  be  a 
stout  lady  altogether  irrepressible  by  any  means — quite  a 
parallel  case  to  the  American  Negro — fourth  of  the  fifteen 
subjects,  and  sister  of  the  fifth  who  presided  over  the  check- 
department.  In  good  time  the  whole  of  the  fifteen  subjects 
were  dramatically  presented,  and  we  had  the  inevitable 
Ma  Mere,  Ma  Mere!  and  also  the  inevitable  malediction 
d'un  pere,  and  likewise  the  inevitable  Marquis,  and  also  the 
inevitable  provincial  young  man,  weak-minded  but  faithful, 
who  followed  Julie  to  Paris,  and  cried  and  laughed  and 
choked  all  at  once.  The  story  was  wrought  out  with  the 
help  of  a  virtuous  spinning-wheel  in  the  beginning,  a  vicious 
set  of  diamonds  in  the  middle,  and  a  rheumatic  blessing 
(which  arrived  by  post)  from  Ma  Mere  towards  the  end; 
the  whole  resulting  in  a  small  sword  in  the  body  of  one  of  the 
stout  gentlemen  imperfectly  repressed  by  a  belt,  fifty  thou- 
sand francs  per  annum  and  a  decoration  to  the  other  stout 
gentleman  imperfectly  repressed  by  a  belt,  and  an  assurance 


The  Stage  in  Dickens's  Novels     129 

from  everybody  to  the  provincial  young  man  that  if  he  were 
not  supremely  happy — which  he  seemed  to  have  no  reason 
whatever  for  being — he  ought  to  be.  This  afforded  him  a 
final  opportunity  of  crying  and  laughing  and  choking  all  at 
once,  and  sent  the  audience  home  sentimentally  delighted. 
Audience  more  attentive  and  better  behaved  there  could  not 
possibly  be,  though  the  places  of  second  rank  in  the  Theatre 
of  the  Family  P.  Salcy  were  sixpence  each  in  English  money, 
and  the  places  of  first  rank  a  shilling.  How  the  fifteen  sub- 
jects ever  got  so  fat  upon  it,  the  kind  Heavens  know. 

From  "The  Uncommercial  Traveller." 

In  an  Empty  Theatre 

Between  the  bridge  and  the  two  great  theatres,  there  was 
but  the  distance  of  a  few  hundred  paces,  so  the  theatres  came 
next.  Grim  and  black  within,  at  night,  those  great  dry 
Wells,  and  lonesome  to  imagine,  with  the  rows  of  faces  faded 
out,  the  lights  extinguished,  and  the  seats  all  empty.  One 
would  think  that  nothing  in  them  knew  itself  at  such  a  time 
but  Yorick's  skull.  In  one  of  my  night  walks,  as  the  church 
steeples  were  shaking  the  March  winds  and  rain  with  strokes 
of  Four,  I  passed  the  outer  boundary  of  one  of  these  great 
deserts,  and  entered  it.  With  a  dim  lantern  in  my  hand,  I 
groped  my  well-known  way  to  the  stage  and  looked  over  the 
orchestra — which  was  like  a  great  grave  dug  for  a  time  of 
pestilence — into  the  void  beyond.  A  dismal  cavern  of  an 
immense  aspect,  with  the  chandelier  gone  dead  like  every- 
thing else,  and  nothing  visible  through  mist  and  fog  and 
space,  but  tiers  of  winding-sheets.  The  ground  at  my  feet 
where,  when  last  there,  I  had  seen  the  peasantry  of  Naples 
dancing  among  the  vines,  reckless  of  the  burning  mountain 
which  threatened  to  overwhelm  them,  was  now  in  possession 
of  a  strong  serpent  of  engine-hose,  watchfully  lying  in  wait 
for  the  serpent  Fire,  and  ready  to  fly  at  it  if  it  showed  its 
9 


130      Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

forked  tongue.  A  ghost  of  a  watchman,  carrying  a  faint 
corpse  candle,  haunted  the  distant  upper  gallery  and  flitted 
away.  Retiring  within  the  proscenium,  and  holding  my 
light  above  my  head  towards  the  rolled-up  curtain — green 
no  more,  but  black  as  ebony — my  sight  lost  itself  in  a  gloomy 
vault,  showing  faint  indications  in  it  of  a  shipwreck  of  can- 
vas and  cordage.  Methought  I  felt  much  as  a  diver  might, 
at  the  bottom  of  the  sea. 

From  "The  Uncommercial  Traveller." 


The  Vincent  Crummies  Company 


131 


THE  VINCENT  CRUMMLES 
COMPANY 

1. — THE  COMPANY  OF  MR.  VINCENT  CRUMMLES,  AND  HIS 
AFFAIRS   DOMESTIC   AND    PERSONAL 

AS  Mr.  Crummies  had  a  strange  four-legged  animal  in  the 
inn  stables,  which  he  called  a  pony,  and  a  vehicle  of 
unknown  design,  on  which  he  bestowed  the  appellation  of 
four-wheeled  phaeton,  Nicholas  proceeded  on  his  journey 
next  morning  with  greater  ease  than  he  had  expected:  the 
manager  and  himself  occupying  the  front  seat:  and  the 
Master  Crummleses  and  Smike  being  packed  together  be- 
hind, in  company  with  a  wicker  basket  defended  from  wet 
by  a  stout  oilskin,  in  which  were  the  broad-swords,  pistols, 
pigtails,  nautical  costumes,  and  other  professional  necessaries 
of  the  aforesaid  young  gentlemen. 

The  pony  took  his  time  upon  the  road,  and — possibly  in 
consequence  of  his  theatrical  education — evinced,  every  now 
and  then,  a  strong  inchnation  to  lie  down.  However,  Mr. 
Vincent  Crummies  kept  him  up  pretty  well,  by  jerking  the 
rein,  and  plying  the  whip;  and  when  these  means  failed 
and  the  animal  came  to  a  stand,  the  elder  Master  Crummies 
got  out  and  kicked  him.  By  dint  of  these  encouragements, 
he  was  persuaded  to  move  from  time  to  time,  and  they 
jogged  on  (as  Mr.  Crummies  truly  observed)  very  comfort- 
ably for  all  parties. 

"He's  a  good  pony  at  bottom,"  said  Mr.  Crummies, 
turning  to  Nicholas. 

133 


134      Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

He  might  have  been  at  bottom,  but  he  certainly  was  not 
at  top,  seeing  that  his  coat  was  of  the  roughest  and  most 
ill-favoured  kind.  So  Nicholas  merely  observed  that  he 
shouldn't  wonder  if  he  was, 

"Many  and  many  is  the  circuit  this  pony  has  gone,"  said 
Mr.  Crummies,  flicking  him  skilfully  on  the  eyelid  for  old 
acquaintance'  sake.  "He  is  quite  one  of  us.  His  mother 
was  on  the  stage." 

"Was  she?"  rejoined  Nicholas. 

"She  ate  apple-pie  at  a  circus  for  upwards  of  fourteen 
years,"  said  the  manager;  "fired  pistols,  and  went  to  bed 
in  a  nightcap;  and,  in  short,  took  the  low  comedy  entirely. 
His  father  was  a  dancer." 

"Was  he  at  all  distinguished?" 

"Not  very,"  said  the  manager.  "He  was  rather  a  low 
sort  of  pony.  The  fact  is,  he  had  been  originally  jobbed  out 
by  the  day,  and  he  never  quite  got  over  his  old  habits.  He 
was  clever  in  melodrama  too,  but  too  broad — too  broad. 
When  the  mother  died,  he  took  the  port-wine  business." 

"The  port-wine  business!"  cried  Nicholas. 

"Drinking  port-wine  with  the  clown,"  said  the  manager; 
"but  he  was  greedy,  and  one  night  bit  off  the  bowl  of  the 
glass,  and  choked  himself,  so  his  vulgarity  was  the  death  of 
him  at  last." 

The  descendant  of  this  ill-starred  animal  requiring  in- 
creased attention  from  Mr.  Crummies  as  he  progressed  in 
his  day's  work,  that  gentleman  had  very  little  time  for  con- 
versation. Nicholas  was  thus  left  at  leisure  to  entertain 
himself  with  his  own  thoughts,  until  they  arrived  at  the 
drawbridge  at  Portsmouth,  when  Mr.  Crummies  pulled  up. 

"We'll  get  down  here,"  said  the  manager,  "and  the  boys 
will  take  him  round  to  the  stable,  and  call  at  my  lodgings 
with  the  luggage.  You  had  better  let  yours  be  taken  there 
for  the  present." 

Thanking  Mr.  Vincent  Crummies  for  his  obliging  oflfer, 


The  Vincent  Crummies  Company  135 

Nicholas  jumped  out,  and,  giving  Smike  his  arm,  accom- 
panied the  manager  up  High  Street  on  their  way  to  the 
theatre;  feeUng  nervous  and  uncomfortable  enough  at  the 
prospect  of  an  immediate  introduction  to  a  scene  so  new 
to  him. 

They  passed  a  great  many  bills,  pasted  against  the  walls 
and  displayed  in  windows,  wherein  the  names  of  Mr.  Vin- 
cent Crummies,  and  Miss  Crummies,  were  printed  in  very 
large  letters,  and  everything  else  in  very  small  ones;  and, 
turning  at  length  into  an  entry,  in  which  was  a  strong  smell 
of  orange-peel  and  lamp-oil,  with  an  under-current  of  saw- 
dust, groped  their  way  through  a  dark  passage,  and,  de- 
scending a  step  or  two,  threaded  a  little  maze  of  canvas 
screens  and  paint-pots,  and  emerged  upon  the  stage  of  the 
Portsmouth  Theatre. 

"Here  we  are,"  said  Mr.  Crummies. 

It  was  not  very  light,  but  Nicholas  found  himself  close  to 
the  first  entrance  on  the  prompt  side,  among  bare  walls, 
dusty  scenes,  mildewed  clouds,  heavily  daubed  draperies, 
and  dirty  floors.  He  looked  about  him;  ceiling,  pit,  boxes, 
gallery,  orchestra,  fittings,  and  decorations  of  every  kind, — 
all  looked  coarse,  cold,  gloomy,  and  wretched. 

"Is  this  a  theatre?"  whispered  Smike,  in  amazement, 
"I  thought  is  was  a  blaze  of  light  and  finery." 

"Why,  so  it  is,"  replied  Nicholas,  hardly  less  surprised; 
"but  not  by  day,  Smike — not  by  day." 

The  manager's  voice  recalled  him  from  a  more  careful 
inspection  of  the  building,  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  pro- 
scenium, where,  at  a  small  mahogany  table  with  rickety 
legs  and  of  an  oblong  shape,  sat  a  stout,  portly  female, 
apparently  between  forty  and  fifty,  in  a  tarnished  silk  cloak, 
with  her  bonnet  dangling  by  the  strings  in  her  hand,  and 
her  hair  (of  which  she  had  a  great  quantity)  braided  in  a 
large  festoon  over  each  temple. 

"Mr.  Johnson,"  said  the  manager  (for  Nicholas  had  given 


136     Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

the  name  which  Newman  Noggs  had  bestowed  upon  him  in 
his  conversation  with  Mrs.  Kenwigs),  "let  me  introduce 
Mrs.  Vincent  Crummies." 

"I  am  glad  to  see  you,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Vincent  Crummies, 
in  a  sepulchral  voice.  "I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  and  still 
more  happy  to  hail  you  as  a  promising  member  of  our  corps." 

The  lady  shook  Nicholas  by  the  hand  as  she  addressed 
him  in  these  terms;  he  saw  it  was  a  large  one,  but  had 
not  expected  quite  such  an  iron  grip  as  that  with  which  she 
honoured  him. 

"And  this,"  said  the  lady,  crossing  to  Smike,  as  tragic 
actresses  cross  when  they  obey  a  stage  direction,  "and  this 
is  the  other.     You  too,  are  welcome,  sir." 

"He'll  do,  I  think,  my  dear?"  said  the  manager,  taking 
a  pinch  of  snuff. 

"He  is  admirable,"  replied  the  lady.  "An  acquisition, 
indeed." 

As  Mrs.  Vincent  Crummies  recrossed  back  to  the  table, 
there  bounded  on  to  the  stage  from  some  mysterious  inlet, 
a  little  girl  in  a  dirty  white  frock  with  tucks  up  to  the  knees, 
short  trousers,  sandaled  shoes,  white  spencer,  pink  gauze 
bonnet,  green  veil  and  curl  papers;  who  turned  a  pirouette, 
cut  twice  in  the  air,  turned  another  pirouette,  then,  looking 
off  at  the  opposite  wing,  shrieked,  bounded  forward  to 
within  six  inches  of  the  footlights,  and  fell  into  a  beautiful 
attitude  of  terror,  as  a  shabby  gentleman  in  an  old  pair  of 
buff  slippers  came  in  at  one  powerful  slide,  and  chattering 
his  teeth,  fiercely  brandished  a  walking-stick. 

"They  are  going  through  the  Indian  Savage  and  the 
Maiden,"  said  Mrs.  Crummies. 

"Oh!"  said  the  manager,  "the  little  ballet  interlude. 
Very  good,  go  on.  A  little  this  way,  if  you  please,  Mr. 
Johnson.     That'll  do.     Now!" 

The  manager  clapped  his  hands  as  a  signal  to  proceed, 
and  the  savage,  becoming  ferocious,  made  a  slide  towards 


The  Vincent  Crummies  Company  137 

the  maiden;  but  the  maiden  avoided  him  in  six  twirls,  and 
came  down,  at  the  end  of  the  last  one,  upon  the  very  points 
of  her  toes.  This  seemed  to  make  some  impression  upon 
the  savage;  for,  after  a  little  more  ferocity  and  chasing  of 
the  maiden  into  corners,  he  began  to  relent,  and  stroked 
his  face  several  times  with  his  right  thumb  and  four  fingers, 
thereby  intimating  that  he  was  struck  with  admiration  of 
the  maiden's  beauty.  Acting  upon  the  impulse  of  this 
passion,  he  (the  savage)  began  to  hit  himself  severe  thumps 
in  the  chest,  and  to  exhibit  other  indications  of  being 
desperately  in  love,  which  being  rather  a  prosy  proceeding, 
was  very  likely  the  cause  of  the  maiden's  falling  asleep; 
whether  it  was  or  no,  asleep  she  did  fall,  sound  as  a  church, 
on  a  sloping  bank,  and  the  savage  perceiving  it,  leant  his 
left  ear  on  his  left  hand,  and  nodded  sideways,  to  intimate 
to  all  whom  it  might  concern  that  she  was  asleep,  and  no 
shamming.  Being  left  to  himself,  the  savage  had  a  dance, 
all  alone.  Just  as  he  left  off,  the  maiden  woke  up,  rubbed 
her  eyes,  got  off  the  bank,  and  had  a  dance  all  alone  too — 
such  a  dance  that  the  savage  looked  on  in  ecstasy  all  the 
while,  and  when  it  was  done,  plucked  from  a  neighbouring 
tree  some  botanical  curiosity,  resembling  a  small  pickled 
cabbage,  and  offered  it  to  the  maiden,  who  at  first  wouldn't 
have  it,  but  on  the  savage  shedding  tears  relented.  Then 
the  savage  jumped  for  joy;  then  the  maiden  jumped  for 
rapture  at  the  sweet  smell  of  the  pickled  cabbage.  Then 
the  savage  and  the  maiden  danced  violently  together,  and, 
finally,  the  savage  dropped  down  on  one  knee,  and  the 
maiden  stood  on  one  leg  upon  his  other  knee;  thus  con- 
cluding the  ballet,  and  leaving  the  spectators  in  a  state  of 
pleasing  uncertainty,  whether  she  would  ultimately  marry 
the  savage,  or  return  to  her  friends. 

"Very  well  indeed,"  said  Mr.  Crummies;  "bravo!" 
"Bravo!"  cried  Nicholas,  resolved  to  make  the  best  of 
everything.     "Beautiful!" 


138     Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

"This,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Vincent  Crummies,  bringing  the 
maiden  forward,  "this  is  the  infant  phenomenon — Miss 
Ninetta  Crummies." 

"Your  daughter?"  inquired  Nicholas. 

"My  daughter — my  daughter,"  replied  Mr.  Vincent 
Crummies;  "the  idol  of  every  place  we  go  into,  sir.  We 
have  had  complimentary  letters  about  this  girl,  sir,  from  the 
nobility  and  gentry  of  almost  every  town  in  England." 

"I  am  not  surprised  at  that,"  said  Nicholas;  "she  must 
be  quite  a  natural  genius." 

"Quite  a !"  Mr.  Crummies  stopped:  language  was 

not  powerful  enough  to  describe  the  infant  phenomenon. 
"I'll  tell  you  what,  sir,"  he  said;  "the  talent  of  this  child  is 
not  to  be  imagined.  She  must  be  seen,  sir — seen — to  be 
ever  so  faintly  appreciated.  There;  go  to  your  mother,  my 
dear." 

"May  I  ask  how  old  she  is?"  inquired  Nicholas. 

"You  may,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Crummies,  looking  steadily 
in  his  questioner's  face,  as  some  men  do  when  they  have 
doubts  about  being  implicitly  believed  in  what  they  are 
going  to  say.     "She  is  ten  years  of  age,  sir." 

"Not  more?" 

*'Not  a  day." 

"Dear  me!"  said  Nicholas,  "it's  extraordinary." 

It  was;  for  the  infant  phenomenon,  though  of  short 
stature,  had  a  comparatively  aged  countenance,  and  had 
moreover  been  precisely  the  same  age — not  perhaps  to  the 
full  extent  of  the  memory  of  the  oldest  inhabitant,  but 
certainly  for  five  good  years.  But  she  had  been  kept  up 
late  every  night,  and  put  upon  an  unlimited  allowance  of  gin- 
and-water  from  infancy,  to  prevent  her  growing  tall,  and 
perhaps  this  system  of  training  had  produced  in  the  infant 
phenomenon  these  additional  phenomena. 

While  this  short  dialogue  was  going  on,  the  gentleman 
who  had  enacted  the  savage,  came  up,  with  his  walking 


The  Vincent  Crummies  Company  139 

shoes  on  his  feet,  and  his  sHppers  in  his  hand,  to  within  a 
few  paces,  as  if  desirous  to  join  in  the  conversation.  Deem- 
ing this  a  good  opportunity,  he  put  in  his  word. 

"Talent  there,  sir!"  said  the  savage,  nodding  towards 
Miss  Crummies. 

Nicholas  assented. 

"Ah!"  said  the  actor,  setting  his  teeth  together,  and 
drawing  in  his  breath  with  a  hissing  sound,  "she  oughtn't 
to  be  in  the  provinces,  she  oughtn't." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  the  manager. 

"I  mean  to  say,"  replied  the  other,  warmly,  "that  she  is 
too  good  for  country  boards,  and  that  she  ought  to  be  in  one 
of  the  large  houses  in  London,  or  nowhere;  and  I  tell  you 
more,  without  mincing  the  matter,  that  if  it  wasn't  for  envy 
and  jealousy  in  some  quarter  that  you  know  of,  she  would 
be.     Perhaps  you'll  introduce  me  here,  Mr.  Crummies." 

"Mr.  Folair,"  said  the  manager,  presenting  him  to 
Nicholas. 

"Happy  to  know  you,  sir."  Mr.  Folair  touched  the  brim 
of  his  hat  with  his  forefinger,  and  then  shook  hands.  "A 
recruit,  sir,  I  understand.'*" 

"Did  you  ever  see  such  a  set-out  as  that?"  whispered  the 
actor,  drawing  him  away,  as  Crummies  left  them  to  speak 
to  his  wife. 

"As  what?" 

Mr.  Folair  made  a  funny  face  from  his  pantomime  col- 
lection, and  pointed  over  his  shoulder. 

"You  don't  mean  the  infant  phenomenon?" 

"Infant  humbug,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Folair.  "There  isn't 
a  female  child  of  common  sharpness  in  a  charity  school,  that 
couldn't  do  better  than  that.  She  may  thank  her  stars  she 
was  born  a  manager's  daughter." 

"You  seem  to  take  it  to  heart,"  observed  Nicholas,  with  a 
smile. 

"Yes,  by  Jove,  and  well  I  may,"  said  Mr.  Folair,  drawing 


140     Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

his  arm  through  his,  and  walking  him  up  and  down  the 
stage.  "Isn't  it  enough  to  make  a  man  crusty  to  see  that 
little  sprawler  put  up  in  the  best  business  every  night,  and 
actually  keeping  money  out  of  the  house,  by  being  forced 
down  the  people's  throats,  while  other  people  are  passed 
over?  Isn't  it  extraordinary  to  see  a  man's  confounded 
family  conceit  blinding  him,  even  to  his  own  interest?  Why 
I  know  of  fifteen  and  sixpence  that  came  to  Southampton 
one  night  last  month,  to  see  me  dance  the  Highland  Fling; 
and  what's  the  consequence?  I've  never  been  put  up  in  it 
since — never  once — while  the  'infant  phenomenon'  has 
been  grinning  through  artificial  flowers  at  five  people  and  a 
baby  in  the  pit,  and  two  boys  in  the  gallery,  every  night." 

"If  I  may  judge  from  what  I  have  seen  of  you,"  said 
Nicholas,  "you  must  be  a  valuable  member  of  thecompany." 

"Oh!"  replied  Mr.  Folair,  beating  his  slippers  together, 
to  knock  the  dust  out;  "I  can  come  it  pretty  well — nobody 
better  perhaps,  in  my  own  line — but  having  such  business 
as  one  gets  here,  is  like  putting  lead  on  one's  feet  instead  of 
chalk,  and  dancing  in  fetters  without  the  credit  of  it. 
Holloa,  old  fellow,  how  are  you?" 

The  gentleman  addressed  in  these  latter  words,  was  a 
dark-complexioned  man,  inclining  indeed  to  sallow,  with 
long  thick  black  hair,  and  very  evident  indications  (al- 
though he  was  close  shaved)  of  a  stiff  beard,  and  whiskers  of 
the  same  deep  shade.  His  age  did  not  appear  to  exceed 
thirty,  though  many  at  first  sight  would  have  considered 
him  much  older,  as  his  face  was  long,  and  very  pale,  from 
the  constant  application  of  stage  paint.  He  wore  a  checked 
shirt,  an  old  green  coat  with  new  gilt  buttons,  a  necker- 
chief of  broad  red  and  green  stripes,  and  full  blue  trousers; 
he  carried,  too,  a  common  ash  walking-stick,  apparently 
more  for  show  than  use,  as  he  flourished  it  about,  with  the 
hooked  end  downwards,  except  when  he  raised  it  for  a  few 
seconds,  and  throwing  himself  into  a  fencing  attitude,  made  a 


The  Vincent  Crummies  Company  141 

pass  or  two  at  the  side-scenes,  or  at  any  other  object, 
animate  or  inanimate,  that  chanced  to  afford  him  a  pretty 
good  mark  at  the  moment. 

"Well,  Tommy,"  said  this  gentleman,  making  a  thrust 
at  his  friend,  who  parried  it  dexterously  with  his  slipper, 
"what's  the  news?" 

"A  new  appearance,  that's  all,"  replied  Mr.  Folair, 
looking  at  Nicholas. 

"Do  the  honours,  Tommy,  do  the  honours,"  said  the 
other  gentleman,  tapping  him  reproachfully  on  the  crown  of 
the  hat  with  his  stick. 

"This  is  Mr.  Lenville,  who  does  our  first  tragedy,  Mr. 
Johnson,"  said  the  pantomimist. 

"  Except  when  old  bricks  and  mortar  takes  it  into  his 
head  to  do  it  himself,  you  should  add.  Tommy,"  remarked 
Mr.  Lenville.  "You  know  who  bricks  and  mortar  is,  I  sup- 
pose, sir?' 

"I  do  not,  indeed,"  replied  Nicholas. 

"We  call  Crummies  that,  because  his  style  of  acting  is 
rather  in  the  heavy  and  ponderous  way,"  said  Mr.  Lenville. 
"I  mustn't  be  cracking  jokes  though,  for  I've  got  a  part  of 
twelve  lengths  here,  which  I  must  be  up  in  to-morrow  night, 
and  I  haven't  had  time  to  look  at  it  yet;  I'm  a  confounded 
quick  study,  that's  one  comfort." 

Consoling  himself  with  this  reflection,  Mr.  Lenville  drew 
from  his  coat-pocket  a  greasy  and  crumpled  manuscript, 
and,  having  made  another  pass  at  his  friend,  proceeded  to 
walk  to  and  fro  conning  it  to  himself  and  indulging  occasion- 
ally in  such  appropriate  action  as  his  imagination  and  the 
text  suggested. 

A  pretty  general  muster  of  the  company  had  by  this  time 
taken  place;  for  besides  Mr.  Lenville  and  his  friend  Tommy, 
there  were  present,  a  slim  young  gentleman  with  weak  eyes, 
who  played  the  low-spirited  lovers  and  sang  tenor  songs, 
and  who  had  come  arm-in-arm  with  the  comic  countryman 


142      Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

— a  man  with  a  turned-up  nose,  large  mouth,  broad  face  and 
staring  eyes.  Making  himself  very  amiable  to  the  infant 
phenomenon,  was  an  inebriated  elderly  gentleman  in  the 
last  depths  of  shabbiness,  who  played  the  calm  and  virtuous 
old  men;  and  paying  especial  court  to  Mrs.  Crummies  was 
another  elderly  gentleman,  a  shade  more  respectable,  who 
played  the  irascible  old  men — those  funny  fellows  who  have 
nephews  in  the  army,  and  perpetually  run  about  with  thick 
sticks  to  compel  them  to  marry  heiresses.  Besides  these, 
there  was  a  roving-looking  person  in  a  rough  great-coat, 
who  strode  up  and  down  in  front  of  the  lamps,  flourishing  a 
dress-cane,  and  rattling  away,  in  an  undertone,  with  great 
vivacity  for  the  amusement  of  an  ideal  audience.  He  was 
not  quite  so  young  as  he  had  been,  and  his  figure  was  rather 
running  to  seed,  but  there  was  an  air  of  exaggerated  gentil- 
ity about  him,  which  bespoke  the  hero  of  swaggering 
comedy.  There  was,  also,  a  little  group  of  three  or  four 
young  men,  with  lantern  jaws  and  thick  eyebrows,  who  were 
conversing  in  one  corner;  but  they  seemed  to  be  of  second- 
ary importance,  and  laughed  and  talked  together  without 
attracting  any  attention. 

The  ladies  were  gathered  in  a  little  knot  by  themselves 
round  the  rickety  table  before  mentioned.  There  was  Miss 
Snevellicci — who  could  do  anything,  from  a  medley  dance 
to  Lady  Macbeth,  and  also  always  played  some  part  in  blue 
silk  knee-smalls  at  her  benefit — glancing,  from  the  depths 
of  her  coal-scuttle  straw  bonnet,  at  Nicholas,  and  affecting 
to  be  absorbed  in  the  recital  of  a  diverting  story  to  her 
friend  Miss  Ledrook,  who  had  brought  her  work,  and  was 
making  up  a  ruff  in  the  most  natural  manner  possible. 
There  was  Miss  Belvawney — who  seldom  aspired  to  speak- 
ing parts,  and  usually  went  on  as  a  page  in  white  silk  hose, 
to  stand  with  one  leg  bent,  and  contemplate  the  audience, 
or  to  go  in  and  out  after  Mr.  Crummies  in  stately  tragedy — 
twisting  up  the  ringlets  of  the  beautiful  Miss  Bravassa,  who 


The  Vincent  Crummies  Company  143 

had  once  had  her  likeness  taken  "in  character"  by  an  en- 
graver's apprentice,  whereof  impressions  were  hung  up  for 
sale  in  the  pastry-cook's  window,  and  the  greengrocer's,  and 
at  the  circulating  library,  and  the  box-office,  whenever  the 
announce  bills  came  out  for  her  annual  night.  There  was 
Mrs.  Lenville,  in  a  very  limp  bonnet  and  veil,  decidedly  in 
that  way  in  which  she  would  wish  to  be  if  she  truly  loved 
Mr.  Lenville;  there  was  Miss  Gazingi,  with  an  imitation 
ermine  boa  tied  in  a  loose  knot  round  her  neck,  flogging  Mr. 
Crummies,  junior,  with  both  ends,  in  fun.  Lastly,  there 
was  Mrs.  Grudden  in  a  brown  cloth  pelisse  and  a  beaver 
bonnet  who  assisted  Mrs.  Crummies  in  her  domestic  affairs 
and  took  money  at  the  doors,  and  dressed  the  ladies,  and 
swept  the  house,  and  held  the  prompt  book  when  everybody 
else  was  on  for  the  last  scene,  and  acted  any  kind  of  part  on 
any  emergency  without  ever  learning  it,  and  was  put  down 
in  the  bills  under  any  name  or  names  whatever,  that 
occurred  to  Mr.  Crummies  as  looking  well  in  print. 

Mr.  Folair  having  obligingly  confided  these  particulars  to 
Nicholas,  left  him  to  mingle  with  his  fellows;  the  work  of 
personal  introduction  was  completed  by  Mr.  Vincent 
Crummies,  who  publicly  heralded  the  new  actor  as  a  prodigy 
of  genius  and  learning. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Miss  Snevellicci,  sidling 
towards  Nicholas,  "but  did  you  ever  play  at  Canterbury?" 

"I  never  did,"  replied  Nicholas. 

"I  recollect  meeting  a  gentleman  at  Canterbury,"  said 
Miss  Snevellicci,  "only  for  a  few  moments,  for  I  was  leaving 
the  company  as  he  joined  it,  so  like  you  that  I  felt  almost 
certain  it  was  the  samej' 

"I  see  you  now,  for  the  first  time,"  rejoined  Nicholas 
with  all  due  gallantry.  "  I  am  sure  I  never  saw  you  before; 
I  couldn't  have  forgotten  it." 

"Oh,  I'm  sure — it's  very  flattering  of  you  to  say  so,'* 
retorted  Miss  Snevellicci  with  a  graceful  bend.     "Now  I 


144      Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

look  at  you  again,  I  see  that  the  gentleman  at  Canterbury 
hadn't  the  same  eyes  as  you — you'll  think  nic  very  foolish 
for  taking  notice  of  such  things,  won't  you?" 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Nicholas.  "How  can  I  feel  otherwise 
than  flattered  by  your  notice  in  any  way?" 

"Oh!  you  men  are  such  vain  creatures!"  cried  Miss 
Snevellicci.  Whereupon,  she  became  charmingly  confused, 
and,  pulling  out  her  pocket-handkerchief  from  a  faded  pink 
silk  reticule  with  a  gilt  clasp,  called  to  Miss  Ledrook — 

"Led,  my  dear,"  said  Miss  Snevellicci. 

"Well,  what  is  the  matter?"  said  Miss  Ledrook. 

"It's  not  the  same." 

"Not  the  same  what?" 

"Canterbury — you  know  what  I  mean.  Come  here!  I 
want  to  speak  to  you." 

But  Miss  Ledrook  wouldn't  come  to  Miss  Snevellicci,  so 
Miss  Snevellicci  was  obliged  to  go  to  Miss  Ledrook,  which 
she  did,  in  a  skipping  manner  that  was  quite  fascinating; 
and  Miss  Ledrook  evidently  joked  Miss  Snevellicci  about 
being  struck  with  Nicholas ;  for,  after  some  playful  whisper- 
ing. Miss  Snevellicci  hit  Miss  Ledrook  very  hard  on  the 
backs  of  her  hands,  and  retired  up,  in  a  state  of  pleasing 
confusion. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  said  Mr.  Vincent  Crummies, 
who  had  been  writing  on  a  piece  of  paper  "we'll  call  the 
Mortal  Struggle  to-morrow  at  ten;  everybody  for  the  pro- 
cession. Intrigue,  and  Ways  and  Means,  you're  all  up  in, 
so  we  shall  only  want  one  rehearsal.  Everybody  at  ten,  if 
you  please." 

"Everybody  at  ten,"  repeated  Mrs.  Grudden,  looking 
about  her. 

"On  Monday  morning  we  shall  read  a  new  piece,"  said 
Mr.  Crummies;  "the  name's  not  known  yet,  but  every- 
body will  have  a  good  part.  Mr.  Johnson  will  take  care 
of  that." 


The  Vincent  Crummies  Company  145 

"Hallo!"  said  Nicholas,  starting,  "I " 

"On  Monday  morning,"  repeated  Mr.  Crummies,  raising 
his  voice,  to  drown  the  unfortunate  Mr.  Johnson's  remon- 
strance; "that'll  do,  ladies  and  gentlemen." 

The  ladies  and  gentlemen  required  no  second  notice  to 
quit;  and,  in  a  few  minutes,  the  theatre  was  deserted,  save 
by  the  Crummies  family,  Nicholas,  and  Smike. 

"Upon  my  word,"  said  Nicholas,  taking  the  manager 
aside,  "I  don't  think  I  can  be  ready  by  Monday." 

"Pooh,  pooh,"  replied  Mr.  Crummies. 

"But  really  I  can't,"  returned  Nicholas;  "my  invention 
is  not  accustomed  to  these  demands,  or  possibly  I  might 
produce " 

"Invention!  what  the  devil's  that  got  to  do  with  it!" 
cried  the  manager,  hastily. 

"Everything,  my  dear  sir." 

"Nothing,  my  dear  sir,"  retorted  the  manager,  with 
evident  impatience.     "Do  you  understand  French?" 

"Perfectly  well." 

"Very  good,"  said  the  manager,  opening  the  table- 
drawer,  and  giving  a  roll  of  paper  from  it  to  Nicholas. 
"  There !  Just  turn  that  into  English,  and  put  your  name  on 
the  title-page.  Damn  me,"  said  Mr.  Crummies,  angrily, 
"if  I  haven't  often  said  that  I  wouldn't  have  a  man  or 
woman  in  my  company  that  wasn't  master  of  the  language, 
so  that  they  might  learn  it  from  the  original,  and  play  it  in 
English,  and  save  all  this  trouble  and  expense." 

Nicholas  smiled  and  pocketed  the  play. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  about  your  lodgings?"  said 
Mr.  Crummies. 

Nicholas  could  not  help  thinking  that,  for  the  first  week, 
it  would  be  an  uncommon  convenience  to  have  a  turn-up 
bedstead  in  the  pit,  but  he  merely  remarked  that  he  had 
not  turned  his  thoughts  that  way. 

"Come  home  with  me  then,"  said  Mr.  Crummies,  "and 
10 


146      Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

my  boys  shall  go  with  you  after  dinner,  and  show  you  the 
most  likely  place." 

The  offer  was  not  to  be  refused;  Nicholas  and  Mr. 
Crummies  gave  Mrs.  Crummies  an  arm  each,  and  walked 
up  the  street  in  stately  array.  Smike,  the  boys,  and  the 
phenomenon,  went  home  by  a  shorter  cut,  and  Mrs. 
Grudden  remained  behind  to  take  some  cold  Irish  stew  and 
a  pint  of  porter  in  the  box-office. 

Mrs.  Crummies  trod  the  pavement  as  if  she  were  going 
to  immediate  execution  with  an  animating  consciousness  of 
innocence,  and  that  heroic  fortitude  which  virtue  alone  in- 
spires. Mr.  Crummies,  on  the  other  hand,  assumed  the 
look  and  gait  of  a  hardened  despot;  but  they  both  attracted 
some  notice  from  many  of  the  passers-by,  and  when  they 
heard  a  whisper  of  "  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Crummies ! "  or  saw  a  little 
boy  run  back  to  stare  them  in  the  face,  the  severe  expression 
of  their  countenances  relaxed,  for  they  felt  it  was  popularity. 

Mr.  Crummies  lived  in  Saint  Thomas's  Street,  at  the 
house  of  one  Bulph,  a  pilot,  who  sported  a  boat-green  door, 
with  window-frames  of  the  same  colour,  and  had  the  little 
finger  of  a  drowned  man  on  his  parlour  mantel-shelf,  with 
other  maritime  and  natural  curiosities.  He  displayed  also  a 
brass  knocker,  a  brass  plate,  and  a  brass  bell-handle,  all 
very  bright  and  shining ;  and  had  a  mast,  with  a  vane  on  the 
top  of  it,  in  his  back  yard. 

"You  are  welcome,"  said  Mrs.  Crummies,  turning  round 
to  Nicholas  when  they  reached  the  bow-windowed  front 
room  on  the  first  floor. 

Nicholas  bowed  his  acknowledgments,  and  was  un- 
feignedly  glad  to  see  the  cloth  laid. 

"We  have  but  a  shoulder  of  mutton  with  onion  sauce," 
said  Mrs.  Crummies,  in  the  same  charnel-house  voice;  "but 
such  as  our  dinner  is,  we  beg  you  to  partake  of  it." 

"You  are  very  good,"  replied  Nicholas,  "I  shall  do  it 
ample  justice." 


The  Vincent  Crummies  Company  i47 

"Vincent,"  said  Mrs.  Crummies,  "what  is  the  hour?" 

"Five  minutes  past  dinner-time,"  said  Mr.  Crummies. 

Mrs.  Crummies  rang  the  bell.  "Let  the  mutton  and 
onion  sauce  appear." 

The  slave  who  attended  upon  Mr.  Bulph's  lodgers,  dis- 
appeared, and  after  a  short  interval  re-appeared  with  the 
festive  banquet.  Nicholas  and  the  infant  phenomenon 
opposed  each  other  at  the  pembroke-table,  and  Smike  and 
the  Master  Crummleses  dined  on  the  sofa  bedstead. 

"Are  they  very  theatrical  people  here?"  asked  Nicholas. 

"No,"  replied  Mr.  Crummies,  shaking  his  head,  "far 
from  it — far  from  it." 

"I  pity  them,"  observed  Mrs.  Crummies. 

"So  do  I,"  said  Nicholas;  "if  they  have  no  relish  for 
theatrical  entertainments,  properly  conducted." 

"Then  they  have  none,  sir,"  rejoined  Mr.  Crummies. 
"To  the  infant's  benefit,  last  year,  on  which  occasion  she 
repeated  three  of  her  most  popular  characters,  and  also 
appeared  in  the  Fairy  Porcupine,  as  originally  performed  by 
her,  there  was  a  house  of  no  more  than  four  pound  twelve." 

"Is  it  possible?"  cried  Nicholas. 

"And  two  pound  of  that  was  trust,  pa,"  said  the  phenom- 
enon. 

"And  two  pound  of  that  was  trust,"  repeated  Mr. 
Crummies.  "Mrs.  Crummies  herself  has  played  to  mere 
handfuls." 

"But  they  are  always  a  taking  audience,  Vincent,"  said 
the  manager's  wife. 

"Most  audiences  are,  when  they  have  good  acting — real 
good  acting — the  regular  thing,"  replied  Mr.  Crummies, 
forcibly. 

'Do  you  give  lesssons,  ma'am?"  inquired  Nicholas. 
1  do,"  said  Mrs.  Crummies. 

"There  is  no  teaching  here,  I  suppose?" 

"There  has  been,"  said  Mrs.  Crummies.     "I  have  ra- 


te ' 


148      Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

ceived  pupils  here,  I  imparted  tuition  to  the  daughter  of  a 
dealer  in  ships'  provision;  but  it  afterwards  appeared  that 
she  was  insane  when  she  first  came  to  me.  It  was  very 
extraordinary  that  she  should  come,  under  such  circum- 
stances." 

Not  feeling  quite  so  sure  of  that,  Nicholas  thought  it  best 
to  hold  his  peace. 

"Let  me  see,"  said  the  manager  cogitating  after  dinner. 
"Would  you  like  some  nice  little  part  with  the  infant?" 

"You  are  very  good,"  replied  Nicholas  hastily;  "but  I 
think  perhaps  it  would  be  better  if  I  had  somebody  of  my 
own  size  at  first,  in  case  I  should  turn  out  awkward.  I 
should  feel  more  at  home  perhaps." 

"True,"  said  the  manager.  "Perhaps  you  would.  And 
you  could  play  up  to  the  infant,  in  time,  you  know." 

"Certainly,"  replied  Nicholas:  devoutly  hoping  that  it 
would  be  a  very  long  time  before  he  was  honoured  with  this 
distinction. 

"Then  I'll  tell  you  what  we'll  do,"  said  Mr.  Crummies. 
"You  shall  study  Romeo  when  you've  done  that  piece — 
don't  forget  to  throw  the  pump  and  tubs  in  by-the-bye — 
Juliet  Miss  Snevellicci,  old  Grudden  the  nurse. — Yes,  that'll 
do  very  well.  Rover  too; — you  might  get  up  Rover  while 
you  were  about  it,  and  Cassio,  and  Jeremy  Diddler.  You 
can  easily  knock  them  off;  one  part  helps  the  other  so  much. 
Here  they  are,  cues  and  all." 

With  these  hasty  general  directions  Mr.  Crummies  thrust 
a  number  of  little  books  into  the  faltering  hands  of  Nicholas, 
and  bidding  his  eldest  son  go  with  him  and  show  where 
lodgings  were  to  be  had,  shook  him  by  the  hand,  and  wished 
him  good  night. 

There  is  no  lack  of  comfortable  furnished  apartments  in 
Portsmouth,  and  no  difficulty  in  finding  some  that  are  pro- 
portionate to  very  slender  finances;  but  the  former  were  too 
good,  and  the  latter  too  bad,  and  they  went  into  so  many 


The  Vincent  Crummies  Company  149 

houses,  and  came  out  unsuited,  that  Nicholas  seriously 
began  to  think  he  should  be  obliged  to  ask  permission  to 
spend  the  night  in  the  theatre,  after  all. 

Eventually,  however,  they  stumbled  upon  two  small 
rooms  up  three  pair  of  stairs,  or  rather  two  pair  and  a  ladder, 
at  a  tobacconist's  shop,  on  the  Common  Hard:  a  dirty 
street  leading  down  to  the  dockyard.  These  Nicholas 
engaged,  only  too  happy  to  have  escaped  any  request  for 
payment  of  a  week's  rent  beforehand. 

"There!  Lay  down  our  personal  property,  Smike,"  he 
said,  after  showing  young  Crummies  downstairs.  "We 
have  fallen  upon  strange  times,  and  Heaven  only  knows  the 
end  of  them;  but  I  am  tired  with  the  events  of  these  three 
days  and  will  postpone  reflection  till  to-morrow — if  I  can." 

2. — OF  THE  GREAT  BESPEAK  FOR  MISS  SNEVELLICCI,  AND  THE 
FIRST  APPEARANCE  OF  NICHOLAS  UPON  ANY  STAGE 

Nicholas  was  up  betimes  in  the  morning;  but  he  had 
scarcely  begun  to  dress,  notwithstanding,  when  he  heard 
footsteps  ascending  the  stairs,  and  was  presently  saluted  by 
the  voices  of  Mr.  Folair  the  pantomimist,  and  Mr.  Lenville 
the  tragedian. 

"House,  house,  house!"  cried  Mr.  Folair. 

"What,  ho!  within  there!"  said  Mr.  Lenville,  in  a  deep 
voice. 

Confound  these  fellows!  thought  Nicholas;  they  have 
come  to  breakfast,  I  suppose.  "I'll  open  the  door  directly, 
if  you'll  wait  an  instant." 

The  gentlemen  entreated  him  not  to  hurry  himself;  and, 
to  beguile  the  interval  had  a  fencing-bout  with  their 
walking-sticks  on  the  very  small  landing-place:  to  the 
unspeakable  discomposure  of  all  the  other  lodgers  down- 
stairs. 

"Here,  come  in,"  said  Nicholas,  when  he  had  completed 


150      Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

his  toilet.  "In  the  name  of  all  that's  horrible,  don't  make 
that  noise  outside." 

"An  uncommon  snug  little  box  this,"  said  Mr.  Lenville, 
stepping  into  the  front  room,  and  taking  his  hat  off,  before 
he  could  get  in  at  all.     "Pernicious  snug." 

"For  a  man  at  all  particular  in  such  matters,  it  might  be 
a  trifle  too  snug,"  said  Nicholas;  "for,  although  it  is,  un- 
doubtedly, a  great  convenience  to  be  able  to  reach  anything 
you  want  from  the  ceiling  or  the  floor,  or  either  side  of  the 
room,  without  having  to  move  from  your  chair,  still  these 
advantages  can  only  be  had  in  an  apartment  of  the  most 
limited  size." 

"It  isn't  a  bit  too  confined  for  a  single  man,"  returned 
Mr,  Lenville.  "That  reminds  me, — my  wife,  Mr.  John- 
son,— I  hope  she'll  have  some  good  part  in  this  piece  of 
yours.'' 

"I  glanced  at  the  French  copy  last  night,"  said  Nicholas. 
"It  looks  very  good,  I  think." 

"What  do  you  mean  to  do  for  me,  old  fellow?"  asked  Mr. 
Lenville,  poking  the  struggling  fire  with  his  walking-stick, 
and  afterwards  wiping  it  on  the  skirt  of  his  coat.  "Any- 
thing in  the  gruff  and  grumble  way?" 

"You  turn  your  wife  and  child  out  of  doors,"  said 
Nicholas;  "and  in  a  fit  of  rage  and  jealousy,  stab  your  eldest 
son  in  the  library." 

"Do  I  though!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Lenville.  "That's  very 
good  business." 

"After  which,"  said  Nicholas,  "you  are  troubled  with 
remorse  till  the  last  act  and  then  you  make  up  your  mind 
to  destroy  yourself.  But,  just  as  you  are  raising  the  pistol 
to  your  head,  a  clock  strikes — ten." 

"I  see,"  cried  Mr.  Lenville.     "Very  good." 

"You  pause,"  said  Nicholas;  "you  recollect  to  have  heard 
a  clock  strike  ten  in  your  infancy.  The  pistol  falls  from 
your  hand — you  are  overcome — you  burst  into  tears,  and 


The  Vincent  Crummies  Company  151 

become  a  virtuous  and  exemplary  character  for  ever  after- 
wards." 

"Capital!"  said  Mr.  Lenville:  "that's  a  sure  card,  a  sure 
card.  Get  the  curtain  down  with  a  touch  of  nature  like 
that — and  it'll  be  a  triumphant  success." 

"Is  there  anything  good  for  me?"  inquired  Mr.  Folair, 
anxiously. 

"Let  me  see,"  said  Nicholas.  "You  play  the  faithful 
and  attached  servant;  you  are  turned  out  of  doors  with  the 
wife  and  child." 

"Always  coupled  with  that  infernal  phenomenon," 
sighed  Mr.  Folair;  "and  we  go  into  poor  lodgings,  where 
I  won't  take  any  wages,  and  talk  sentiment,  I  suppose?" 

"Why — ^yes,"  replied  Nicholas:  "that  is  the  course  of  the 
piece." 

"I  must  have  a  dance  of  some  kind,  you  know,"  said  Mr. 
Folair.  "You'll  have  to  introduce  one  for  the  phenomenon, 
so  you'd  better  make  a  pas  de  deux,  and  save  time." 

"There's  nothing  easier  than  that,"  said  Mr.  Lenville, 
observing  the  disturbed  looks  of  the  young  dramatist. 

"Upon  my  word  I  don't  see  how  it's  to  be  done,"  rejoined 
Nicholas. 

"Why,  isn't  it  obvious?"  reasoned  Mr.  Lenville.  "Gad- 
zooks,  who  can  help  seeing  the  way  to  do  it? — you  astonish 
me!  You  get  the  distressed  lady,  and  the  little  child,  and 
the  attached  servant,  into  the  poor  lodgings,  don't  you? 
— Well,  look  here.  The  distressed  lady  sinks  into  a  chair 
and  buries  her  face  in  her  pocket-handkerchief — 'What 
makes  you  weep,  mama?'  says  the  child.  'Don't  weep 
mama,  or  you'll  make  me  weep  too !' — '  And  me ! '  says  the 
faithful  servant,  rubbing  his  eyes  with  his  arm.  '  What  can 
we  do  to  raise  your  spirits,  dear  mama?'  says  the  little 
child.  'Aye,  what  can  we  do?'  says  the  faithful  servant. 
'Oh,  Pierre!'  says  the  distressed  lady;  'would  that  I  could 
shake  off  these  painful  thoughts.' — 'Try,  ma'am,  try,'  says 


152      Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

the  faithful  servant;  'rouse  yourself,  ma'am;  be  amused.* — 
'I  will,'  says  the  lady,  'I  will  learn  to  suffer  with  fortitude. 
Do  you  remember  that  dance,  my  honest  friend,  which,  in 
happier  days,  you  practised  with  this  sweet  angel?  It  never 
failed  to  calm  my  spirits  then.  Oh !  let  me  see  it  once  again 
before  I  die ! ' — There  it  is — cue  for  the  band,  before  I  die, — 
and  off  they  go.  That's  the  regular  thing :  isn't  it,  Tommy?  " 

"That's  it,"  replied  Mr.  Folair.  "The  distressed  lady, 
overpowered  by  old  recollections,  faints  at  the  end  of  the 
dance,  and  you  close  in  with  a  picture." 

ProlBting  by  these  and  other  lessons,  which  were  the  result 
of  the  personal  experience  of  the  two  actors,  Nicholas  will- 
ingly gave  them  the  best  breakfast  he  could,  and,  when  he 
at  length  got  rid  of  them,  applied  himself  to  his  task :  by  no 
means  displeased  to  find  that  it  was  so  much  easier  than  he 
had  at  first  supposed.  He  worked  very  hard  all  day,  and 
did  not  leave  his  room  until  the  evening,  when  he  went 
down  to  the  theatre,  whither  Smike  had  repaired  before  him 
to  go  on  with  another  gentleman  as  a  general  rebellion. 

Here  all  the  people  were  so  much  changed,  that  he  scarcely 
knew  them.  False  hair,  false  colour,  false  calves,  false 
muscles — they  had  become  different  beings.  Mr.  Lenville 
was  a  blooming  warrior  of  most  exquisite  proportions;  Mr. 
Crummies,  his  large  face  shaded  by  a  profusion  of  black 
hair,  a  Highland  outlaw  of  most  majestic  bearing;  one  of 
the  old  gentlemen  a  gaoler,  and  the  other  a  venerable 
patriarch;  the  comic  countryman,  a  fighting-man  of  great 
valour,  relieved  by  a  touch  of  humour;  each  of  the  Master 
Crummies  a  prince  in  his  own  right;  and  the  low-spirited 
lover,  a  desponding  captive.  There  was  a  gorgeous  ban- 
quet ready  spread  for  the  third  act,  consisting  of  two  paste- 
board vases,  one  plate  of  biscuits,  a  black  bottle  and  a 
vinegar  cruet ;  and,  in  short,  everything  was  on  a  scale  of  the 
utmost  splendour  and  preparation. 

Nicholas  was  standing  with  his  back  to  the  curtain,  now 


The  Vincent  Crummies  Company  153 

contemi)lating  the  first  scene,  which  was  a  Gothic  archway, 
about  two  feet  shorter  than  Mr.  Crummies,  through  which 
that  gentleman  was  to  make  his  first  entrance,  and  now 
listening  to  a  couple  of  people  who  were  cracking  nuts  in 
the  gallery,  wondering  whether  they  made  the  whole  audi- 
ence, when  the  manager  himself  walked  familiarly  up  and 
accosted  him. 

"Been  in  front  to-night?"  said  Mr.  Crummies. 

"No,"  replied  Nicholas,  "not  yet.     I  am  going  to  see  the 

play." 

"We've  had  a  pretty  good  Let,"  said  Mr.  Crummies. 
"Four  front  places  in  the  centre,  and  the  whole  of  the 
stage-box." 

"Oh,  indeed!"  said  Nicholas;  "a  family,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Mr.  Crummies,  "yes.  It's  an  affecting 
thing.  There  are  six  children  and  they  never  come  unless 
the  phenomenon  plays." 

It  would  have  been  difficult  for  any  party,  family  or 
otherwise,  to  have  visited  the  theatre  on  a  night  when  the 
phenomenon  did  not  play,  inasmuch  as  she  always  sustained 
one,  and  not  uncommonly  two  or  three  characters,  every 
night;  but  Nicholas,  sympathising  with  the  feelings  of  a 
father,  refrained  from  hinting  at  this  trifling  circumstance, 
and  Mr.  Crummies  continued  to  talk,  uninterrupted  by  him. 

"Six,"  said  that  gentleman;  "Pa  and  Ma  eight,  aunt 
nine,  governess  ten,  grandfather  and  grandmother  twelve. 
Then,  there's  the  footman,  who  stands  outside,  with  a  bag 
of  oranges  and  a  jug  of  toast-and-water,  and  sees  the  play 
for  nothing  through  the  little  pane  of  glass  in  the  box-door — 
it's  cheap  at  a  guinea;  they  gain  by  taking  a  box." 

"I  wonder  you  allow  so  many,"  observed  Nicholas. 

"There's  no  help  for  it,"  replied  Mr.  Crummies;  "it's 
always  expected  in  the  country.  If  there  are  six  children, 
six  people  come  to  hold  them  in  their  laps.  A  family-box 
carries  double  always.     Ring  in  the  orchestra,  Grudden!" 


154      Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

That  useful  lady  did  as  she  was  requested,  and  shortly 
afterwards  the  tuning  of  three  fiddles  was  heard.  Which 
process  having  been  protracted  as  long  as  it  was  supposed 
that  the  patience  of  the  audience  could  possibly  bear  it,  was 
put  a  stop  to  by  another  jerk  of  the  bell,  which,  being  the 
signal  to  begin  in  earnest,  set  the  orchestra  playing  a  variety 
of  popular  airs,  with  involuntary  variations. 

If  Nicholas  had  been  astonished  at  the  alteration  for  the 
better  which  the  gentlemen  displayed,  the  transformation  of 
thd  ladies  was  still  more  extraordinary.  When,  from  a  snug 
corner  of  the  manager's  box,  he  beheld  Miss  Snevellicci  in  all 
the  glories  of  white  muslin  with  a  golden  hem,  and  Mrs. 
Crummies  in  all  the  dignity  of  the  outlaw's  wife,  and  Miss 
Bravassa  in  all  the  sweetness  of  Miss  Snevellicci 's  con- 
fidential friend,  and  Miss  Belvawney  in  the  white  silks  of 
a  page  doing  duty  everywhere,  and  swearing  to  live  and  die 
in  the  service  of  everybody,  he  could  scarcely  contain  his  ad- 
miration, which  testified  itself  in  great  applause,  and  the 
closest  possible  attention  to  the  business  of  the  scene.  The 
plot  was  most  interesting.  It  belonged  to  no  particular 
age,  people,  or  country,  and  was  perhaps  the  most  delightful 
on  that  account,  as  nobody's  previous  information  could 
afford  the  remotest  glimmering  of  what  would  ever  come 
of  it.  An  outlaw  had  been  very  successful  in  doing  some- 
thing somewhere,  and  came  home,  in  triumph,  to  the  sound 
of  shouts  and  fiddles,  to  greet  his  wife — a  lady  of  masculine 
mind,  who  talked  a  good  deal  about  her  father's  bones, 
which  it  seemed  were  unburied,  though  whether  from  a  pecu- 
liar taste  on  the  part  of  the  old  gentleman  himself,  or  the 
reprehensible  neglect  of  his  relations,  did  not  appear.  The 
outlaw's  wife  was,  somehow  or  other,  mixed  up  with  a  patri- 
arch, living  in  a  castle  a  long  way  off,  and  this  patriarch 
was  the  father  of  several  of  the  characters,  but  he  didn't 
exactly  know  which,  and  was  uncertain  whether  he  had 
brought  up  the  right  ones  in  his  castle,  or  the  wrong  ones; 


The  Vincent  Crummies  Company  155 

he  rather  inclined  to  the  latter  opinion,  and,  being  uneasy, 
relieved  his  mind  with  a  banquet  during  which  solemnity 
somebody  in  a  cloak  said  "Beware!"  which  somebody  was 
known  by  nobody  (except  the  audience)  to  be  the  outlaw 
himself,  who  had  come  there,  for  reasons  unexplained,  but 
possibly  with  an  eye  to  the  spoons.  There  was  an  agreeable 
little  surprise  in  the  way  of  certain  love  passages  between 
the  desponding  captive  and  Miss  Snevellicci,  and  the  comic 
fighting-man  and  Miss  Bravassa;  besides  which,  Mr.  Len- 
ville  had  several  very  tragic  scenes  in  the  dark,  while  on 
throat-cutting  expeditions,  which  were  all  baffled  by  the 
skill  and  bravery  of  the  comic  fighting-man  (who  overheard 
whatever  was  said  all  through  the  piece)  and  the  intrepidity 
of  Miss  Snevellicci,  who  adopted  tights,  and  therein  re- 
paired to  the  prison  of  her  captive  lover,  with  a  small  basket 
of  refreshments  and  a  dark  lantern.  At  last,  it  came  out 
that  the  patriarch  was  the  man  who  had  treated  the  bones 
of  the  outlaw's  father-in-law  with  so  much  disrespect,  for 
which  cause  and  reason  the  outlaw's  wife  repaired  to  his 
castle  to  kill  him,  and  so  got  into  a  dark  room,  where,  after 
a  good  deal  of  groping  in  the  dark,  everybody  got  hold  of 
everybody  else,  and  took  them  for  somebody  besides,  which 
occasioned  a  vast  quantity  of  confusion,  with  some  pistol- 
ling, loss  of  life,  and  torchlight;  after  which,  the  patriarch 
came  forward,  and  observing,  with  a  knowing  look,  that 
he  knew  all  about  his  children  now,  and  would  tell  them 
when  they  got  inside,  said  that  there  could  not  be  a  more 
appropriate  occasion  for  marrying  the  young  people  than 
that;  and  therefore  he  joined  their  hands,  with  the  full  con- 
sent of  the  indefatigable  page,  who  (being  the  only  other 
person  surviving)  pointed  with  his  cap  into  the  clouds,  and 
his  right  hand  to  the  ground;  thereby  invoking  a  blessing 
and  giving  the  cue  for  the  curtain  to  come  down,  which  it 
did,  amidst  general  applause. 

"What  did  you  think  of  that?"  asked  Mr.  Crummies, 


156      Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

when  Nicholas  went  round  to  the  stage  again.  Mr. 
Crummies  was  very  red  and  hot,  for  your  outlaws  are 
desperate  fellows  to  shout. 

"I  think  it  was  very  capital  indeed,"  replied  Nicholas; 
"Miss  Snevellicci  in  particular  was  uncommonly  good." 

"She's  a  genius,"  said  Mr.  Crummies;  "quite  a  genius, 
that  girl.  By-the-bye,  I've  been  thinking  of  bringing  out 
that  piece  of  yours  on  her  bespeak  night." 

"When?"  asked  Nicholas. 

"The  night  of  her  bespeak.  Her  benefit  night,  when  her 
friends  and  patrons  bespeak  the  play,"  said  Mr.  Crummies. 

"Oh!  I  understand,"  replied  Nicholas. 

"You  see,"  said  Mr.  Crummies,  "it's  sure  to  go,  on  such 
an  occasion,  and  even  if  it  should  not  work  up  quite  as  well 
as  we  expect,  why  it  will  be  her  risk,  you  know,  and  not 
ours." 

"Yours,  you  mean,"  said  Nicholas. 

"I  said  mine,  didn't  I?"  returned  Mr.  Crummies.  "Next 
Monday  week.  What  do  you  say?  You'll  have  done  it, 
and  are  sure  to  be  up  in  the  lover's  part,  long  before  that 
time." 

"I  don't  know  about  'long  before,'"  replied  Nicholas; 
"but  hy  that  time  I  think  I  can  undertake  to  be  ready." 

"Very  good,"  pursued  Mr.  Crummies,  "then  we'll  call 
that  settled.  Now,  I  want  to  ask  you  something  else. 
There's  a  little — what  shall  I  call  it — a  little  canvassing 
takes  place  on  these  occasions." 

"Among  the  patrons,  I  suppose?"  said  Nicholas. 

"Among  the  patrons;  and  the  fact  is,  that  Snevellicci  has 
had  so  many  bespeaks  in  this  place,  that  she  wants  an  at- 
traction. She  had  a  bespeak  when  her  mother-in-law  died, 
and  a  bespeak  when  her  uncle  died;  and  Mrs.  Crummies  and 
myself  have  had  bespeaks  on  the  anniversary  of  the  phenom- 
enon's birthday,  and  our  wedding-day,  and  occasions  of 
that  description,  so  that,  in  fact,  there's  some  diflBculty  in 


The  Vincent  Crummies  Company  i57 

getting  a  good  one.  Now,  won't  you  help  this  poor  girl, 
Mr.  Johnson?"  said  Crummies,  sitting  himself  down  on  a 
drum,  and  taking  a  great  pinch  of  snuff,  as  he  looked  him 
steadily  in  the  face. 

"How  do  you  mean?"  rejoined  Nicholas. 

"Don't  you  think  you  could  spare  half-an-hour  to-mor- 
row morning,  to  call  with  her  at  the  houses  of  one  or  two  of 
the  principal  people?"  murmured  the  manager  in  a  per- 
suasive tone. 

"Oh  dear  me,"  said  Nicholas,  with  an  air  of  very  strong 
objection,  "I  shouldn't  like  to  do  that." 

"The  infant  will  accompany  her,"  said  Mr.  Crummies, 
"The  moment  it  was  suggested  to  me,  I  gave  permission  for 
the  infant  to  go.  There  will  not  be  the  smallest  impropriety 
— Miss  Snevellicci,  sir,  is  the  very  soul  of  honour.  It  would 
be  of  material  service — the  gentleman  from  London — au- 
thor of  the  new  piece — actor  in  the  new  piece — first  appear- 
ance on  any  boards — it  would  lead  to  a  great  bespeak, 
Mr.  Johnson." 

"I  am  very  sorry  to  throw  a  damp  upon  the  prospects  of 
anybody,  and  more  especially  a  lady,"  replied  Nicholas; 
"but  really  I  must  decidedly  object  to  making  one  of  the 
canvassing  party." 

"What  does  Mr.  Johnson  say,  Vincent?"  inquired  a  voice 
close  to  his  ear;  and,  looking  round,  he  found  Mrs.  Crummies 
and  Miss  Snevellicci  herself  standing  behind  him. 

"He  has  some  objection,  my  dear,"  replied  Mr. 
Crummies,  looking  at  Nicholas. 

"Objection!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Crummies.  "Can  it  be 
possible?" 

"Oh,  I  hope  not!"  cried  Miss  Snevellicci.  "You  surely 
are  not  so  cruel — oh,  dear  me!^ — Well  I — to  think  of  that 
now,  after  all  one's  looking  forward  to  it!" 

"Mr.  Johnson  will  not  persist,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs. 
Crummies.     "Think  better   of  him   than   to   suppose  it. 


158      Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

Gallantry,  humanity,  all  the  best  feelings  of  his  nature, 
must  be  enlisted  in  this  interesting  cause." 

"Which  moves  even  a  manager,"  said  Mr.  Crummies, 
smiling. 

"And  a  manager's  wife,"  added  Mrs.  Crummies,  in  her 
accustomed  tragedy  tones.  "Come,  come,  you  will  relent, 
I  know  you  will." 

"It  is  not  in  my  nature,"  said  Nicholas,  moved  by  these 
appeals,  "to  resist  any  entreaty,  unless  it  is  to  do  something 
positively  wrong;  and,  beyond  a  feeling  of  pride,  I  know 
nothing  which  should  prevent  my  doing  this.  I  know 
nobody  here,  and  nobody  knows  me.  So  be  it  then.  I 
yield." 

Miss  Snevellicci  was  at  once  overwhelmed  with  blushes 
and  expressions  of  gratitude,  of  which  latter  commodity 
neither  Mr.  nor  Mrs.  Crummies  was  by  any  means  sparing. 
It  was  arranged  that  Nicholas  should  call  upon  her,  at  her 
lodgings,  at  eleven  next  morning,  and  soon  after  they 
parted :  he  to  return  home  to  his  authorship :  Miss  Snevellicci 
to  dress  for  the  after-piece:  and  the  disinterested  manager 
and  his  wife  to  discuss  the  probable  gains  of  the  forthcoming 
bespeak,  of  which  they  were  to  have  two-thirds  of  the  profits 
by  solemn  treaty  of  agreement. 

At  the  stipulated  hour  next  morning,  Nicholas  repaired  to 
the  lodgings  of  Miss  Snevellicci,  which  were  in  a  place 
called  Lombard  Street,  at  the  house  of  a  tailor.  A  strong 
smell  of  ironing  pervaded  the  little  passage;  and  the  tailor's 
daughter,  who  opened  the  door,  appeared  in  that  flutter  of 
spirits  which  is  so  often  attendant  upon  the  periodical 
getting  up  of  a  family's  linen. 

"Miss  Snevellicci  lives  here,  I  believe?"  said  Nicholas, 
when  the  door  was  opened. 

The  tailor's  daughter  replied  in  the  aflBrmative. 

"Will  you  have  the  goodness  to  let  her  know  that  Mr. 
Johnson  is  here?"  said  Nicholas. 


The  Vincent  Crummies  Company  159 

"Oh,  if  you  please,  you're  to  come  upstairs,"  replied  the 
tailor's  daughter,  with  a  smile. 

Nicholas  followed  the  young  lady,  and  was  shown  into  a 
small  apartment  on  the  first  floor,  communicating  with  a 
back  room;  in  which,  as  he  judged  from  a  certain  half- 
subdued  clinking  sound,  as  of  cups  and  saucers.  Miss 
Snevellicci  was  then  taking  her  breakfast  in  bed. 

"  You're  to  wait,  if  you  please,"  said  the  tailor's  daughter, 
after  a  short  period  of  absence,  during  which  the  clinking  in 
the  back  room  had  ceased,  and  had  been  succeeded  by 
whispering — "She  won't  be  long." 

As  she  spoke  she  pulled  up  the  window-blind,  and  having 
by  this  means  (as  she  thought)  diverted  Mr.  Johnson's  at- 
tention from  the  room  to  the  street,  caught  up  some  articles 
which  were  airing  on  the  fender,  and  had  very  much  the 
appearance  of  stockings,  and  darted  off. 

As  there  were  not  many  objects  of  interest  outside  the 
window  Nicholas  looked  about  the  room  with  more  curiosity 
than  he  might  otherwise  have  bestowed  upon  it.  On  the 
sofa  lay  an  old  guitar,  several  thumbed  pieces  of  music,  and 
a  scattered  litter  of  curl-papers:  together  with  a  confused 
heap  of  play-bills,  and  a  pair  of  soiled  white  satin  shoes  with 
large  blue  rosettes.  Hanging  over  the  back  of  a  chair  was 
a  half -finished  muslin  apron  with  little  pockets  ornamented 
with  red  ribbons,  such  as  waiting-women  wear  on  the  stage, 
and  (by  consequence)  are  never  seen  with  anywhere  else. 
In  one  corner  stood  the  diminutive  pair  of  top-boots  in 
which  Miss  Snevellicci  was  accustomed  to  enact  the  little 
jockey,  and,  folded  on  a  chair  hard  by,  was  a  small  parcel 
which  bore  a  very  suspicious  resemblance  to  the  companion 
smalls. 

But  the  most  interesting  object  of  all,  was,  perhaps,  the 
open  scrap-book,  displayed  in  the  midst  of  some  theatrical 
duodecimos  that  were  strewn  upon  the  table;  and  pasted 
into  which  scrap-book  were  various  critical  notices  of  Miss 


i6o      Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

Snevellicci's  acting,  extracted  from  different  provincial 
journals,  together  with  one  poetic  address  in  her  honour 
commencing — 

Sing,  God  of  Love,  and  tell  me  in  what  dearth 
Thrice-gifted  Snevellicci  came  on  earth, 
To  thrill  us  with  her  smile,  her  tear,  her  eye. 
Sing,  God  of  Love,  and  tell  me  quickly  why. 

Besides  this  effusion,  there  were  innumerable  complimentary 
allusions,  also  extracted  from  newspapers,  such  as — "We 
observe  from  an  advertisement  in  another  part  of  our  paper 
of  to-day,  that  the  charming  and  highly-talented  Miss 
Snevellicci  takes  her  benefit  on  Wednesday,  for  which  occa- 
sion she  has  put  forth  a  bill  of  fare  that  might  kindle  exhila- 
ration in  the  breast  of  a  misanthrope.  In  the  confidence 
that  our  fellow-townsmen  have  not  lost  that  high  apprecia- 
tion of  public  utility  and  private  worth  for  which  they  have 
long  been  so  pre-eminently  distinguished,  we  predict  that 
this  charming  actress  will  be  greeted  with  a  bumper."  "To 
Correspondents. — J.  S.  is  misinformed  when  he  supposes 
that  the  highly-gifted  and  beautiful  Miss  Snevellicci, 
nightly  captivating  all  hearts  at  our  pretty  and  commodi- 
ous little  theatre,  is  not  the  same  lady  to  whom  the  young 
gentleman  of  immense  fortune,  residing  within  a  hundred 
miles  of  the  good  city  of  York,  lately  made  honourable 
proposals.  We  have  reason  to  know  that  Miss  Snevellicci 
is  the  lady  who  was  implicated  in  that  mysterious  and 
romantic  affair,  and  whose  conduct  on  that  occasion  did  no 
less  honour  to  her  head  and  heart,  than  do  her  histrionic 
triumphs  to  her  brilliant  genius."  A  copious  assortment 
of  such  paragraphs  as  these,  with  long  bills  of  benefits  all 
ending  with  "Come  Early,"  in  large  capitals,  formed  the 
principal  contents  of  Miss  Snevellicci's  scrap-book. 

Nicholas  had  read  a  great  many  of  these  scraps,  and  was 
absorbed  in  a  circumstantial  and  melancholy  account  of  the 


The  Vincent  Crummies  Company  i6i 

train  of  events  which  had  led  to  Miss  SneveUicci's  spraining 
her  ankle  by  slipping  on  a  piece  of  orange-peel  flung  by  a 
monster  in  human  form  (so  the  paper  said),  upon  the  stage 
at  Winchester, — when  the  young  lady  herself,  attired  in  the 
coal-scuttle  bonnet  and  walking-dress  complete,  tripped  into 
the  room  with  a  thousand  apologies  for  having  detained  him 
so  long  after  the  appointed  time. 

"But  really,"  said  Miss  Snevellicci,  "my  darling  Led, 
who  lives  with  me  here,  was  taken  so  very  ill  in  the  night 
that  I  thought  she  would  have  expired  in  my  arms." 

"Such  a  fate  is  almost  to  be  envied,"  returned  Nicholas 
"but  I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  it  nevertheless." 

"What  a  creature  you  are  to  flatter!"  said  Miss  Snevel- 
licci, buttoning  her  glove  in  much  confusion. 

"If  it  be  flattery  to  admire  your  charms  and  accomplish- 
ments," rejoined  Nicholas,  laying  his  hand  upon  the  scrap- 
book,  "you  have  better  specimens  of  it  here." 

"Oh  you  cruel  creature,  to  read  such  things  as  those! 
I'm  almost  ashamed  to  look  you  in  the  face  afterwards, 
positively  I  am,"  said  Miss  SnevelHcci,  seizing  the  book  and 
putting  it  away  in  a  closet.  "How  careless  of  Led!  How 
could  she  be  so  naughty!" 

"I  thought  you  had  kindly  left  it  here,  on  purpose  for  me 
to  read,"  said  Nicholas.     And  really  it  did  seem  possible. 

"I  wouldn't  have  had  you  see  it  for  the  world!"  rejoined 
Miss  Snevellicci.  "I  never  was  so  vexed — never!  But 
she  is  such  a  careless  thing,  there's  no  trusting  her." 

The  conversation  was  here  interrupted  by  the  entrance 
of  the  phenomenon,  who  had  discreetly  remained  in  the  bed- 
room up  to  this  moment,  and  now  presented  herself,  with 
much  grace  and  lightness,  bearing  in  her  hand  a  very  little 
green  parasol  with  a  broad  fringe  border,  and  no  handle. 
After  a  few  words  of  course,  they  saUied  into  the  street. 

The  phenomenon  was  rather  a  troublesome  companion, 
for  first  the  right  sandal  came  down,  and  then  the  left. 


II 


i62      Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

and  these  mischances  being  repaired,  one  leg  of  the  little 
white  trousers  was  discovered  to  be  longer  than  the  other; 
besides  these  accidents,  the  green  parasol  was  dropped 
down  an  iron  grating,  and  only  fished  up  again,  with  great 
difficulty  and  by  dint  of  much  exertion.  However,  it  was 
impossible  to  scold  her,  as  she  was  the  manager's  daughter, 
so  Nicholas  took  it  all  in  perfect  good  humour,  and  walked 
on,  with  Miss  Snevellicci,  arm  in  arm  on  one  side,  and  the 
offending  infant  on  the  other. 

The  first  house  to  which  they  bent  their  steps,  was  situ- 
ated in  a  terrace  of  respectable  appearance.  Miss  Snevel- 
licci's  modest  double-knock  was  answered  by  a  foot-boy, 
who,  in  reply  to  her  inquiry  whether  Mrs.  Curdle  was  at 
home,  opened  his  eyes  very  wide,  grinned  very  much,  and 
said  he  didn't  know,  but  he'd  inquire.  With  this,  he  showed 
them  into  a  parlour  where  he  kept  them  waiting,  until  the 
two  women-servants  had  repaired  thither,  under  false  pre- 
tences, to  see  the  play-actors;  and  having  compared  notes 
with  them  in  the  passage,  and  joined  in  a  vast  quantity  of 
whispering  and  giggling,  he  at  length  went  upstairs  with 
Miss  Snevellicci's  name. 

Now,  Mrs.  Curdle  was  supposed,  by  those  who  were  best 
informed  on  such  points,  to  possess  quite  the  London  taste 
in  matters  relating  to  literature  and  the  drama;  and  as  to 
Mr.  Curdle,  he  had  written  a  pamphlet  of  sixty-four  pages, 
post  octavo,  on  the  character  of  the  Nurse's  deceased  hus- 
band in  Romeo  and  Juliet,  with  an  inquiry  whether  he 
really  had  been  a  "merry  man"  in  his  lifetime,  or  whether  it 
was  merely  his  widow's  affectionate  partiality  that  induced 
her  so  to  report  him.  He  had  likewise  proved,  that  by  alter- 
ing the  received  mode  of  punctuation,  any  one  of  Shake- 
speare's plays  could  be  made  quite  different,  and  the  sense 
completely  changed;  it  is  needless  to  say,  therefore,  that  he 
was  a  great  critic,  and  a  very  profound  and  most  original 
thinker. 


The  Vincent  Crummies  Company  163 

"Well,  Miss  Snevellicci,"  said  Mrs.  Curdle,  entering  the 
parlour,  "and  how  do  you  do?" 

Miss  Snevellicci  made  a  graceful  obeisance,  and  hoped 
Mrs.  Curdle  was  well,  as  also  Mr.  Curdle,  who  at  the  same 
time  appeared.  Mrs.  Curdle  was  dressed  in  a  morning 
wrapper,  with  a  little  cap  stuck  upon  the  top  of  her  head. 
Mr.  Curdle  wore  a  loose  robe  on  his  back,  and  his  right 
fore-finger  on  his  forehead  after  the  portraits  of  Sterne,  to 
whom  somebody  or  other  had  once  said  he  bore  a  striking 
resemblance. 

"I  ventured  to  call,  for  the  purpose  of  asking  whether 
you  would  put  your  name  to  my  bespeak,  ma'am,"  said 
Miss  Snevellicci,  producing  documents. 

"Oh!  I  really  don't  know  what  to  say,"  replied  Mrs. 
Curdle.  "It's  not  as  if  the  theatre  was  in  its  high  and 
palmy  days — you  needn't  stand.  Miss  Snevelhcci — the 
drama  is  gone,  perfectly  gone." 

"As  an  exquisite  embodiment  of  the  poet's  visions  and 
a  realization  of  human  intellectuality,  gilding  with  refulgent 
light  our  dreamy  moments,  and  laying  open  a  new  and  magic 
world  before  the  mental  eye,  the  drama  is  gone,  perfectly 
gone,"  said  Mr.  Curdle. 

"What  man  is  there,  now  living,  who  can  present  before 
us  all  those  changing  and  prismatic  colours  with  which 
the  character  of  Hamlet  is  invested?"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Curdle. 

"What  man  indeed — upon  the  stage,"  said  Mr.  Curdle, 
with  a  small  reservation  in  favour  of  himself.  "Hamlet! 
Pooh!  ridiculous!  Hamlet  is  gone,  perfectly  gone." 

Quite  overcome  by  these  dismal  reflections,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Curdle  sighed,  and  sat  for  some  short  time  without  speak- 
ing. At  length,  the  lady,  turning  to  Miss  Snevellicci, 
inquired  what  play  she  proposed  to  have. 

"Quite  a  new  one,"  said  Miss  Snevellicci,  "of  which  this 
gentleman  is  the  author,  and  in  which  he  plays;  being  his 


1 64      Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

first  appearance  on  any  stage.     Mr.  Johnson  is  the  gentle- 


man's name." 


"I  hope  you  have  preserved  the  unities,  sir?"  said  Mr. 
Curdle. 

"The  original  piece  is  a  French  one,"  said  Nicholas. 
"There  is  abundance  of  incident,  sprightly  dialogue, 
strongly-marked  character " 

" — All  unavailing  without  a  strict  observance  of  the 
unities,  sir,"  returned  Mr.  Curdle.  "The  unities  of  the 
drama,  before  everything." 

"Might  I  ask  you,"  said  Nicholas,  hesitating  between 
the  respect  he  ought  to  assume,  and  his  love  of  the  whimsi- 
cal, "might  I  ask  you  what  the  unities  are?" 

Mr.  Curdle  coughed  and  considered.  "The  unities, 
sir,"  he  said,  "are  a  completeness — a  kind  of  a  universal 
dovetailedness  with  regard  to  place  and  time — a  sort  of  a 
general  oneness,  if  I  may  be  allowed  to  use  so  strong  an 
expression.  I  take  those  to  be  the  dramatic  unities,  so  far 
as  I  have  been  enabled  to  bestow  attention  upon  them,  and 
I  have  read  much  upon  the  subject,  and  thought  much.  I 
find,  running  through  the  performances  of  this  child,"  said 
Mr.  Curdle,  turning  to  the  phenomenon,  "a  unity  of  feeling, 
a  breadth,  a  light  and  shade,  a  warmth  of  colouring,  a  tone, 
a  harmony,  a  glow,  an  artistical  development  of  original 
conceptions,  which  I  look  for,  in  vain,  among  older  per- 
formers. I  don't  know  whether  I  make  myself  under- 
stood?" 

"Perfectly,"  replied  Nicholas. 

"Just  so,"  said  Mr.  Curdle,  pulling  up  his  neckcloth. 
"That  is  my  definition  of  the  unities  of  the  drama." 

Mrs.  Curdle  had  sat  listening  to  this  lucid  explanation 
with  great  complacency.  It  being  finished,  she  inquired 
what  Mr.  Curdle  thought,  about  putting  down  their  names. 

"I  don't  know,  my  dear;  upon  my  word  I  don't  know,'' 
said  Mr.  Curdle.     "If  we  do,  it  must  be  distinctly  under- 


The  Vincent  Crummies  Company  165 

stood  that  we  do  not  pledge  ourselves  to  the  quality  of  the 
performances.  Let  it  go  forth  to  the  world,  that  we  do  not 
give  them  the  sanction  of  our  names,  but  that  we  confer 
the  distinction  merely  upon  Miss  Snevellicci.  That  being 
clearly  stated,  I  take  it  to  be,  as  it  were,  a  duty,  that  we 
should  extend  our  patronage  to  a  degraded  stage,  even 
for  the  sake  of  the  associations  with  which  it  is  entwined. 
Have  you  got  tw^o-and-sixpence  for  half-a-crown,  Miss 
Snevellicci?"  said  Mr.  Curdle,  turning  over  four  of  those 
pieces  of  money. 

Miss  Snevellicci  felt  in  all  the  corners  of  the  pink  reticule, 
but  there  was  nothing  in  any  of  them.  Nicholas  murmured 
a  jest  about  his  being  an  author,  and  thought  it  best  not  to 
go  through  the  form  of  feeling  in  his  own  pockets  at  all. 

"Let  me  see,"  said  Mr.  Curdle;  "twice  four's  eight — four 
shillings  a-piece  to  the  boxes,  Miss  Snevellicci,  is  exceedingly 
dear  in  the  present  state  of  drama — three  half-crowns  is 
seven-and-six;  we  shall  not  differ  about  sixpence,  I  sup- 
pose?    Sixpence  will  not  part  us,  Miss  Snevellicci?" 

Poor  Miss  Snevellicci  took  the  three  half-crowns,  with 
many  smiles  and  bends,  and  Mrs.  Curdle,  adding  several 
supplementary  directions  relative  to  keeping  the  places  for 
them,  and  dusting  the  seat,  and  sending  two  clean  bills  as 
soon  as  they  came  out,  rang  the  bell,  as  a  signal  for  breaking 
up  the  conference. 

"Odd  people  those,"  said  Nicholas,  when  they  got  clear 
of  the  house. 

"I  assure  you,"  said  Miss  Snevellicci,  taking  his  arm, 
"that  I  think  myself  very  lucky  they  did  not  owe  all  the 
money  instead  of  being  sixpence  short.  Now,  if  you  were 
to  succeed,  they  would  give  people  to  understand  that  they 
had  always  patronised  you;  and  if  you  were  to  fail,  they 
would  have  been  quite  certain  of  that  from  the  very 
beginning." 

At  the  next  house  they  visited  they  were  in  great  glory; 


1 66      Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

for,  there,  resided  the  six  children  who  were  so  enraptured 
with  the  public  actions  of  the  phenomenon,  and  who,  being 
called  down  from  the  nursery  to  be  treated  with  a  private 
view  of  that  young  lady,  proceeded  to  poke  their  fingers  into 
her  eyes,  and  tread  upon  her  toes,  and  show  her  many  other 
little  attentions  peculiar  to  their  time  of  life. 

"I  shall  certainly  persuade  Mr.  Borum  to  take  a  private 
box,"  said  the  lady  of  the  house,  after  a  most  gracious  recep- 
tion. "I  shall  only  take  two  of  the  children,  and  will  make 
up  the  rest  of  the  party,  of  gentlemen — your  admirers.  Miss 
Snevellicci.  Augustus,  you  naughty  boy,  leave  the  little 
girl  alone." 

This  was  addressed  to  a  young  gentleman  who  was  pinch- 
ing the  phenomenon  behind,  apparently  with  a  view  of 
ascertaining  whether  she  was  real. 

"I  am  sure  you  must  be  very  tired,"  said  the  mama, 
turning  to  Miss  Snevellicci.  ''I  cannot  think  of  allowing 
you  to  go,  without  first  taking  a  glass  of  wine.  Fie,  Char- 
lotte, I  am  ashamed  of  you !  Miss  Lane,  my  dear,  pray  see 
to  the  children." 

Miss  Lane  was  'he  governess,  and  this  entreaty  was 
rendered  necessary  by  the  abrupt  behaviour  of  the  youngest 
Miss  Borum,  who,  having  filched  the  phenomenon's  little 
green  parasol,  was  now  carrying  it  bodily  off,  while  the  dis- 
tracted infant  looked  helplessly  on. 

"I  am  sure,  where  you  ever  learnt  to  act  as  you  do,"  said 
good-natured  Mrs.  Borum,  turning  again  to  Miss  Snevel- 
licci, "I  cannot  understand  (Emma,  don't  stare  so);  laugh- 
ing in  one  piece,  and  crying  in  the  next,  and  so  natural  in  all 
— oh,  dear!" 

"I  am  very  happy  to  hear  you  express  so  favourable  an 
opinion."  said  Miss  Snevellicci.  "It's  quite  delightful  to 
think  you  like  it." 

"Like  it!"  cried  Mrs,  Borum.  "Who  can  help  liking  it! 
I  would  go  to  the  play,  twice  a  week  if  I  could :  I  dote  upon 


The  Vincent  Crummies  Company  167 

it.  Only  you're  too  aflPecting  sometimes.  You  do  put  me 
in  such  a  state;  into  such  fits  of  crying!  Goodness  gracious 
me,  Miss  Lane,  how  can  you  let  them  torment  that  poor 
child  so!" 

The  phenomenon  was  really  in  a  fair  way  of  being  torn 
limb  from  limb;  for  two  strong  little  boys,  one  holding  on 
by  each  of  her  hands  were  dragging  her  in  different  direc- 
tions as  a  trial  of  strength.  However,  Miss  Lane  (who  had 
herself  been  too  much  occupied  in  contemplating  the  grown- 
up actors,  to  pay  the  necessary  attention  to  these  proceed- 
ings) rescued  the  unhappy  infant  at  this  juncture,  who, 
being  recruited  with  a  glass  of  wine,  was  shortly  afterwards 
taken  away  by  her  friends,  after  sustaining  no  more  serious 
damage  than  a  flattening  of  the  pink  gauze  bonnet,  and  a 
rather  extensive  creasing  of  the  white  frock  and  trousers. 

It  was  a  trying  morning ;  for  there  were  a  great  many  calls 
to  make,  and  everybody  wanted  a  different  thing.  Some 
wanted  tragedies,  and  others  comedies;  some  objected  to 
dancing;  some  wanted  scarcely  anything  else.  Some 
thought  the  comic  singer  decidedly  low,  and  others  hoped  he 
would  have  more  to  do  than  he  usually  had.  Some  people 
wouldn't  promise  to  go,  because  other  people  wouldn't 
promise  to  go;  and  other  people  wouldn't  go  at  all,  because 
other  people  went.  At  length,  and  by  little  and  little, 
omitting  something  in  this  place,  and  adding  something  in 
that,  Miss  Snevellicci  pledged  herself  to  a  bill  of  fare  which 
was  comprehensive  enough,  if  it  had  no  other  merit  (it  in- 
cluded among  other  trifles,  four  pieces,  divers  songs,  a  few 
combats,  and  several  dances);  and  they  returned  home, 
pretty  well  exhausted  with  the  business  of  the  day. 

Nicholas  worked  away  at  the  piece,  which  was  speedily 
put  into  rehearsal,  and  then  worked  away  at  his  own  part, 
which  he  studied  with  great  perseverance  and  acted — as  the 
whole  company  said — to  perfection.  And  at  length  the 
great  day  arrived.     The  crier  was  sent  round,  in  the  morn- 


i68      Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

ing,  to  proclaim  the  entertainments  with  sound  of  bells  in  all 
the  thoroughfares;  and  extra  bills  of  three  feet  long  by  nine 
inches  wide,  were  dispersed  in  all  directions,  flung  down  all 
the  areas,  thrust  under  all  the  knockers,  and  developed  in  all 
the  shops.  They  were  placarded  on  all  the  walls  too,  though 
not  with  complete  success,  for  an  illiterate  person  having 
undertaken  this  office  during  the  indisposition  of  the  regular 
bill-sticker,  a  part  were  posted  sideways,  and  the  remainder 
upside  down. 

At  half -past  five,  there  was  a  rush  of  four  people  to  the 
gallery-door;  at  a  quarter  before  six,  there  were  at  least  a 
dozen;  at  six  o'clock  the  kicks  were  terrific;  and  when  the 
elder  Master  Crummies  opened  the  door,  he  was  obliged  to 
run  behind  it  for  his  life.  Fifteen  shillings  were  taken  by 
Mrs.  Grudden  in  the  first  ten  minutes. 

Behind  the  scenes,  the  same  unwonted  excitement  pre- 
vailed. Miss  Snevellicci  was  in  such  a  perspiration  that  the 
paint  would  scarcely  stay  on  her  face.  Mrs.  Crummies  was 
so  nervous  that  she  could  hardly  remember  her  part.  Miss 
Bravassa's  ringlets  came  out  of  curl  with  the  heat  and 
anxiety;  even  Mr.  Crummies  himself  kept  peeping  through 
the  hole  in  the  curtain,  and  running  back,  every  now  and 
then,  to  announce  that  another  man  had  come  into  the  pit. 

At  last,  the  orchestra  left  off,  and  the  curtain  rose  upon 
the  new  piece.  The  first  scene,  in  which  there  was  nobody 
particular,  passed  off  calmly  enough,  but  when  Miss  Snevel- 
licci went  on  in  the  second,  accompanied  by  the  phenom- 
enon as  child,  what  a  roar  of  applause  broke  out!  The 
people  in  the  Borum  box  rose  as  one  man,  waving  their  hats 
and  handkerchiefs,  and  uttering  shouts  of  "  Bravo ! "  Mrs. 
Borum  and  the  governess  cast  wreaths  upon  the  stage,  of 
which,  some  fluttered  into  the  lamps,  and  one  crowned  the 
temples  of  a  fat  gentleman  in  the  pit,  who,  looking  eagerly 
towards  the  scene,  remained  unconscious  of  the  honour;  the 
tailor  and  his  family  kicked  at  the  panels  of  the  upper  boxes 


The  Vincent  Crummies  Company  169 

till  they  threatened  to  come  out  altogether;  the  very  ginger- 
beer  boy  remained  transfixed  in  the  centre  of  the  house; 
a  young  officer,  supposed  to  entertain  a  passion  for  Miss 
Snevellicci,  stuck  his  glass  in  his  eye  as  though  to  hide  a 
tear.  Again  and  again  Miss  Snevellicci  curtseyed  lower  and 
lower,  and  again  and  again  the  applause  came  down,  louder 
and  louder.  At  length,  when  the  phenomenon  picked  up 
one  of  the  smoking  wreaths  and  put  it  on,  sideways,  over 
Miss  Snevellicci's  eye,  it  reached  its  climax,  and  the  play 
proceeded. 

But  when  Nicholas  came  on  for  his  crack  scene  with  Mrs. 
Crummies,  what  a  clapping  of  hands  there  was!  When 
Mrs.  Crummies  (who  was  his  unworthy  mother)  sneered, 
and  called  him  "presumptuous  boy,"  and  he  defied  her, 
what  a  tumult  of  applause  came  on!  When  he  quarrelled 
with  the  other  gentleman  about  the  young  lady,  and  pro- 
ducing a  case  of  pistols,  said,  that  if  he  was  a  gentleman, 
he  would  fight  him  in  that  drawing-room,  until  the  furniture 
was  sprinkled  with  the  blood  of  one,  if  not  of  two — how 
boxes,  pit,  and  gallery,  joined  in  one  most  vigorous  cheer! 
When  he  called  his  mother  names,  because  she  wouldn't 
give  up  the  young  lady's  property,  and  she  relenting,  caused 
him  to  relent  likewise,  and  fall  down  on  one  knee  and  ask 
her  blessing,  how  the  ladies  in  the  audience  sobbed!  When 
he  was  hid  behind  the  curtain  in  the  dark,  and  the  wicked 
relation  poked  a  sharp  sword  in  every  direction,  save  where 
his  legs  were  plainly  visible,  what  a  thrill  of  anxious  fear 
ran  through  the  house !  His  air,  his  figure,  his  walk,  his 
look,  everything  he  said  or  did,  was  the  subject  of  com- 
mendation. There  was  a  round  of  applause  every  time  he 
spoke.  And  when,  at  last,  in  the  pump-and-tub  scene, 
Mrs.  Grudden  lighted  the  blue  fire,  and  all  the  unemployed 
members  of  the  company  came  in,  and  tumbled  down  in 
various  directions — not  because  that  had  anything  to  do 
with  the  plot,  but  in  order  to  finish  off  with  a  tableau — the 


I70      Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

audience  (who  had  by  this  time  increased  considerably) 
gave  vent  to  such  a  shout  of  enthusiasm,  as  had  not  been 
heard  in  those  walls  for  many  and  many  a  day. 

In  short,  the  success  both  of  new  piece  and  new  actor  was 
complete,  and  when  Miss  Snevellicci  was  called  for  at  the 
end  of  the  play,  Nicholas  led  her  on  and  divided  the 
applause. 

3. — CONCERNING  A  YOUNG  LADY  FROM  LONDON.,  WHO  JOINS 
THE  COMPANY,  AND  AN  ELDERLY  ADMIRER  WHO  FOLLOWS 
IN  HER  train;  with  AN  AFFECTING  CEREMONY  CONSE- 
QUENT ON  THEIR  ARRIVAL 

The  new  piece  being  a  decided  hit,  was  announced  for 
every  evening  of  performance  until  further  notice,  and  the 
evenings  when  the  theatre  was  closed,  were  reduced  from 
three  in  the  week  to  two.  Nor  were  these  the  only  tokens 
of  extraordinary  success;  for,  on  the  succeeding  Saturday, 
Nicholas  received,  by  favour  of  the  indefatigable  Mrs. 
Grudden,  no  less  a  sum  than  thirty  shillings;  besides  which 
substantial  reward,  he  enjoyed  considerable  fame  and 
honour:  having  a  presentation  copy  of  Mr.  Curdle's  pam- 
phlet forwarded  to  the  theatre,  with  that  gentleman's  own 
autograph  (in  itself  an  inestimable  treasure)  on  the  fly-leaf, 
accompanied  with  a  note  containing  many  expressions  of 
approval,  and  unsolicited  assurance  that  Mr.  Curdle  would 
be  very  happy  to  read  Shakespeare  to  him  for  three  hours 
every  morning  before  breakfast  during  his  stay  in  the 
town. 

"I've  got  another  novelty,  Johnson,"  said  Mr.  Crummies 
one  morning  in  great  glee. 

"What's  that?"  rejoined  Nicholas.     "The  pony?" 

"No,  no,  we  never  come  to  the  pony  till  everything  else 
has  failed,"  said  Mr.  Crummies.  "I  don't  think  we  shall 
come  to  the  pony  at  all,  this  season.     No,  no,  not  the  pony." 

"A  boy  phenomenon,  perhaps?"  suggested  Nicholas. 


The  Vincent  Crummies  Company  171 


<<f 


'There  is  only  one  phenomenon,  sir,"  replied  Mr. 
Crummies  impressively,  "and  that's  a  girl." 

"Very  true,"  said  Nicholas.  "I  beg  your  pardon.  Then 
I  don't  know  what  it  is,  I  am  sure." 

"What  should  you  say  to  a  young  lady  from  London?" 
inquired  Mr.  Crummies.  "Miss  So-and-so,  of  the  Theatre 
Royal,  Drury  Lane?" 

"I  should  say  she  would  look  very  well  in  the  bills,"  said 
Nicholas. 

"You're  about  right  there,"  said  Mr.  Crummies;  "and 
if  you  had  said  she  would  look  very  well  upon  the  stage  too, 
you  wouldn't  have  been  far  out.  Look  here;  what  do  you 
think  of  this?" 

With  this  inquiry  Mr.  Crummies  unfolded  a  red  poster, 
and  a  blue  poster,  and  a  yellow  poster,  at  the  top  of  each  of 
which  public  notification  was  inscribed  in  enormous  char- 
acters "First  appearance  of  the  unrivalled  Miss  Petowker 
of  the  Theatre  Royal,  Drury  Lane!" 

"Dear  me!"  said  Nicholas,  "I  know  that  lady." 

"Then  you  are  acquainted  with  as  much  talent  as  was 
ever  compressed  into  one  young  person's  body,"  retorted 
Mr.  Crummies,  rolling  up  the  bills  again;  "that  is,  talent 
of  a  certain  sort — of  a  certain  sort.  'The  Blood  Drinker,'" 
added  Mr.  Crummies  with  a  prophetic  sigh,  "*The  Blood 
Drinker'  will  die  with  that  girl;  and  she's  the  only  sylph 
/  ever  saw,  who  could  stand  upon  one  leg,  and  play  the 
tambourine  on  her  other  knee,  like  a  sylph." 

"When  does  she  come  down,"  asked  Nicholas. 

"We  expect  her  to-day,"  replied  Mr.  Crummies.  "She 
is  an  old  friend  of  Mrs.  Crummles's.  Mrs.  Crummies  saw 
what  she  could  do — always  knew  it  from  the  first.  She 
taught  her,  indeed,  nearly  all  she  knows.  Mrs.  Crummies 
was  the  original  Blood  Drinker." 

"Was  she,  indeed?" 

"Yes.     She  was  obliged  to  give  it  up  though." 


172      Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

"Did  it  disagree  with  her?"  asked  Nicholas. 

"Not  so  much  with  her,  as  with  her  audiences,"  repHed 
Mr.  Crummies.  "Nobody  could  stand  it.  It  was  too 
tremendous.  You  don't  quite  know  what  Mrs.  Crummies 
is,  yet." 

Nicholas  ventured  to  insinuate  that  he  thought  he  did. 

"No,  no,  you  don't,"  said  Mr.  Crummies;  "you  don't, 
indeed.  7  don't,  and  that's  a  fact.  I  don't  think  her 
country  will,  till  she  is  dead.  Some  new  proof  of  talent 
bursts  from  that  astonishing  woman  every  year  of  her  life. 
Look  at  her,  mother  of  six  children,  three  of  'em  alive,  and 
all  upon  the  stage!" 

"Extraordinary!"  cried  Nicholas. 

"Ah!  extraordinary  indeed,"  rejoined  Mr.  Crummies, 
taking  a  complacent  pinch  of  snuff,  and  shaking  his  head 
gravely.  "  I  pledge  you  my  professional  word  I  didn't  even 
know  she  could  dance,  till  her  last  benefit,  and  then  she 
played  Juliet,  and  Helen  Macgregor,  and  did  the  skipping- 
rope  hornpipe  between  the  pieces.  The  very  first  time  I 
saw  that  admirable  woman,  Johnson,"  said  Mr.  Crummies, 
drawing  a  little  nearer,  and  speaking  in  the  tone  of  confi- 
dential friendship,  "she  stood  upon  her  head  on  the  butt-end 
of  a  spear,  surrounded  with  blazing  fireworks." 

"You  astonish  me!"  said  Nicholas. 

"She  astonished  me!"  returned  Mr.  Crummies,  with  a 
very  serious  countenance.  "Such  grace,  coupled  with  such 
dignity!     I  adored  her  from  that  moment!" 

The  arrival  of  the  gifted  subject  of  these  remarks  put  an 
abrupt  termination  to  Mr.  Crummles's  eulogium.  Almost 
immediately  afterwards.  Master  Percy  Crummies  entered 
with  a  letter,  which  had  arrived  by  the  General  Post,  and 
was  directed  to  his  gracious  mother;  at  sight  of  the  super- 
scription whereof,  Mrs.  Crummies  exclaimed,  "From 
Henrietta  Petowker,  I  do  declare!"  and  instantly  became 
absorbed  in  the  contents. 


The  Vincent  Crummies  Company  173 

"Is  it ?"  inquired  Mr.  Crummies,  hesitating 

"Oh,  yes,  it's  all  right,"  replied  Mrs.  Crummies,  antici- 
pating the  question.  "  What  an  excellent  thing  for  her,  to 
be  sure!" 

"It's  the  best  thing  altogether,  that  I  ever  heard  of,  I 
think,"  said  Mr.  Crummies;  and  then  Mr.  Crummies,  ]\[rs. 
Crummies,  and  Master  Percy  Crummies,  all  fell  to  laughing 
violently.  Nicholas  left  them  to  enjoy  their  mirth  together, 
and  walked  to  his  lodgings:  wondering  very  much  what 
mystery  connected  with  Miss  Petowker  could  provoke  such 
merriment,  and  pondering  still  more  on  the  extreme  sur- 
prise with  which  that  lady  would  regard  his  sudden  enlist- 
ment in  a  profession  of  which  she  was  such  a  distinguished 
and  brilliant  ornament. 

But  in  this  latter  respect  he  was  mistaken;  for — whether 
Mr.  Vincent  Crummies  had  paved  the  way  or  Miss 
Petowker  had  some  special  reason  for  treating  him  with 
even  more  than  her  usual  amiability — their  meeting  at  the 
theatre  next  day  was  more  like  that  of  two  dear  friends  who 
had  been  inseparable  from  infancy,  than  a  recognition  pass- 
ing between  a  lady  and  gentleman  who  had  only  met  some 
half  dozen  times,  and  then  by  mere  chance.  Nay,  Miss 
Petowker  even  whispered  that  she  had  wholly  dropped  the 
Kenwigses  in  her  conversations  with  the  manager's  family, 
and  had  represented  herself  as  having  encountered  Mr. 
Johnson  in  the  very  first  and  most  fashionable  circles;  and 
on  Nicholas  receiving  this  intelligence  with  unfeigned 
surprise,  she  added,  with  a  sweet  glance,  that  she  had 
a  claim  on  his  good  nature  now,  and  might  tax  it  before 
long. 

Nicholas  had  the  honour  of  playing  in  a  slight  piece  with 
Miss  Petowker  that  night,  and  could  not  but  observe  that 
the  warmth  of  her  reception  was  mainly  attributable  to 
a  most  persevering  umbrella  in  the  upper  boxes;  he  saw, 
too,  that  the  enchanting  actress  cast  many  sweet  looks 


174      Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

towards  the  quarter  whence  these  sounds  proceeded;  and 
that  every  time  she  did  so,  the  umbrella  broke  out  afresh. 
Once,  he  thought  that  a  peculiarly  shaped  hat  in  the  same 
corner  was  not  wholly  unknown  to  him;  but,  being  occupied 
with  his  share  of  the  stage  business,  he  bestowed  no  great 
attention  upon  this  circumstance,  and  it  had  quite  vanished 
from  his  memory  by  the  time  he  reached  home. 

He  had  just  sat  down  to  supper  with  Smike,  when  one 
of  the  people  of  the  house  came  outside  the  door,  and 
announced  that  a  gentleman  below  stairs  wished  to  speak  to 
Mr.  Johnson. 

"Well,  if  he  does,  you  must  tell  him  to  come  up;  that's 
all  I  know,"  replied  Nicholas.  "  One  of  our  hungry  brethren, 
I  suppose,  Smike." 

His  fellow-lodger  looked  at  the  cold  meat  in  silent  calcu- 
lation of  the  quantity  that  would  be  left  for  dinner  next  day, 
and  put  back  a  slice  he  had  cut  for  himself,  in  order  that 
the  visitor's  encroachments  might  be  less  formidable  in  their 
efiFects. 

"It  is  not  anybody  who  has  been  here  before,"  said 
Nicholas,  "for  he  is  tumbling  up  every  stair.  Come  in, 
come  in.     In  the  name  of  wonder!     Mr.  Lillyvick?" 

It  was,  indeed,  the  collector  of  water-rates  who,  regarding 
Nicholas,  with  a  fixed  look  and  immovable  countenance, 
shook  hands  with  most  portentous  solemnity,  and  sat  him- 
self down  in  a  seat  by  the  chimney-corner. 

"Why,  when  did  you  come  here?"  asked  Nicholas. 

"This  morning,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Lillyvick. 

"Oh!  I  see;  then  you  were  at  the  theatre  to-night,  and  it 
was  your  umb " 

"This  umbrella,"  said  Mr.  Lillyvick,  producing  a  fat 
green  cotton  one  with  a  battered  ferrule.  "What  did  you 
think  of  that  performance?" 

"So  far  as  I  could  judge,  being  on  the  stage,"  replied 
Nicholas,  "I  thought  it  very  agreeable." 


The  Vincent  Crummies  Company  175 

"Agreeable!"  cried  the  collector.  "I  mean  to  say,  sir, 
that  it  was  delicious." 

Mr.  Lillyvick  bent  forward  to  pronounce  the  last  word 
with  greater  emphasis;  and  having  done  so,  drew  himself 
up,  and  frowned  and  nodded  a  great  many  times. 

"I  say,  delicious,"  repeated  Mr.  Lillyvick.  "Absorbing, 
fairy-like,  toomultuous,"  and  again  Mr.  Lillyvick  drew 
himself  up,  and  again  he  frowned  and  nodded. 

"Ah!"  said  Nicholas,  a  little  surprised  at  these  symptoms 
of  ecstatic  approbation.     "Yes,  she  is  a  clever  girl." 

"She  is  a  divinity,"  returned  Mr.  Lillyvick,  giving  a 
collector's  double  knock  on  the  ground  with  the  umbrella 
before-mentioned.  "I  have  known  divine  actresses  before 
now,  sir;  I  used  to  collect — at  least  I  used  to  call  for — and 
very  often  call  for — the  water-rate  at  the  house  of  a  divine 
actress,  who  lived  in  my  beat  for  upwards  of  four  years,  but 
never — no,  never,  sir — of  all  divine  creatures,  actresses  or  no 
actresses,  did  I  see  a  diviner  one  than  is  Henrietta 
Petowker." 

Nicholas  had  much  ado  to  prevent  himself  from  laughing; 
not  trusting  himself  to  speak,  he  merely  nodded  in  accord- 
ance with  Mr.  Lillyvick's  nods,  and  remained  silent. 

"Let  me  speak  a  word  with  you  in  private,"  said  Mr. 
Lillyvick. 

Nicholas  looked  good-humouredly  at  Smike,  who,  taking 
the  hint,  disappeared. 

"A  bachelor  is  a  miserable  wretch,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Lilly- 
vick. 

"Is  he?"  asked  Nicholas. 

"He  is,"  rejoined  the  collector.  "I  have  lived  in  the 
world  for  nigh  sixty  year,   and   I  ought  to  know   what 

•  J.     •        99 

it  IS. 

"You  ought  to  know,  certainly,"  thought  Nicholas;  "but 
whether  you  do  or  not,  is  another  question." 

"If  a  bachelor  happens  to  have  saved  a  little  matter  of 


176      Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

money,"  said  Mr.  Lillyvick,  "his  sisters  and  brothers,  and 
nephews  and  nieces,  look  to  that  money,  and  not  to  him; 
even  if,  by  being  a  pubhc  character,  he  is  the  head  of  the 
family,  or,  as  it  may  be,  the  main  from  which  all  the  other 
little  branches  are  turned  on,  they  still  wish  him  dead  all  the 
while,  and  get  low-spirited  every  time  they  see  him  looking 
in  good  health,  because  they  want  to  come  into  his  little 
property.     You  see  that?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  replied  Nicholas:  "it's  very  true,  no  doubt." 

"The  great  reason  for  not  being  married,"  resumed  Mr. 
Lillyvick,  "is  the  expense;  that's  what's  kept  me  off,  or 
else — Lord!"  said  Mr.  Lillyvick,  snapping  his  fingers,  "I 
might  have  had  fifty  women." 

"Fine  women?"  asked  Nicholas. 

"Fine  women,  sir!"  replied  the  collector;  "aye!  not  so 
fine  as  Henrietta  Petowker,  for  she  is  an  uncommon  speci- 
men, but  such  women  as  don't  fall  into  every  man's  way, 
I  can  tell  you.  Now  suppose  a  man  can  get  a  fortune  in 
a  wife  instead  of  with  her — eh?" 

"Why,  then,  he's  a  lucky  fellow,"  replied  Nicholas. 

"That's  what  I  say,"  retorted  the  collector,  patting  him 
benignantly  on  the  side  of  the  head  with  his  umbrella; 
"just  what  I  say.  Henrietta  Petowker,  the  talented 
Henrietta  Petowker,  has  a  fortune  in  herself,  and  I  am 
going  to " 

"To  make  her  Mrs.  Lillyvick?"  suggested  Nicholas. 

"No,  sir,  not  to  make  her  Mrs.  Lillyvick,"  replied  the 
collector.  "Actresses,  sir,  always  keep  their  maiden  names 
— that's  the  regular  thing — but  I'm  going  to  marry  her; 
and  the  day  after  to-morrow,  too." 

"I  congratulate  you,  sir,"  said  Nicholas. 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  replied  the  collector,  buttoning  his 
waistcoat.  "I  shall  draw  her  salary,  of  course,  and  I  hope 
after  all  that  it's  nearly  as  cheap  to  keep  two  as  it  is  to  keep 
one;  that's  a  consolation." 


The  Vincent  Crummies  Company  177 

"Surely  you  don't  want  any  consolation  at  such  a 
moment?"  observed  Nicholas. 

"No,"  replied  Mr.  Lilly vick,  shaking  his  head  nervously: 
"no — of  course  not." 

"But  how  come  you  both  here,  if  you're  going  to  be 
married,  Mr.  Lillyvick?"  asked  Nicholas. 

"Why,  that's  what  I  came  to  explain  to  you,"  replied  the 
collector  of  water-rates.  "The  fact  is,  we  have  thought  it 
best  to  keep  it  secret  from  the  family." 

"  Family ! "  said  Nicholas.     "  What  family?  " 

"The  Kenwigses  of  course,"  rejoined  Mr.  Lillyvick.  "If 
my  niece  and  the  children  had  known  a  word  about  it  before 
I  came  away,  they'd  have  gone  into  fits  at  my  feet,  and 
never  have  come  out  of  'em  till  I  took  an  oath  not  to  marry 
anybody.  Or  they'd  have  got  out  a  commission  of  lunacy, 
or  some  dreadful  thing,"  said  the  collector,  quite  trembling 
as  he  spoke. 

"To  be  sure,"  said  Nicholas.  "Yes;  they  would  have 
been  jealous,  no  doubt." 

"To  prevent  which,"  said  Mr.  Lillyvick,  "Henrietta 
Petowker  (it  was  settled  between  us)  should  come  down  here 
to  her  friends,  the  Crummleses,  under  pretence  of  this  en- 
gagement and  I  should  go  down  to  Guildford  the  day  before, 
and  join  her  on  the  coach  there;  which  I  did,  and  we  came 
down  from  Guildford  yesterday  together.  Now,  for  fear 
you  should  be  writing  to  Mr.  Noggs,  and  might  say  any- 
thing about  us  we  have  thought  it  best  to  let  you  into  the 
secret.  We  shall  be  married  from  the  Crummleses'  lodg- 
ings, and  shall  be  delighted  to  see  you — either  before  church 
or  at  breakfast-time,  which  you  like.  It  won't  be  expensive, 
you  know,"  said  the  collector,  highly  anxious  to  prevent 
any  misunderstanding  on  this  point;  "just  muflSns  and 
coffee,  with  perhaps  a  shrimp  or  something  of  that  sort  for  a 
relish,  you  know." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  understand,"  replied  Nicholas.     "Oh,  I  shall 


12 


178      Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

be  most  happy  to  come;  it  will  give  me  the  greatest  pleasure. 
Where's  the  lady  stopping?     With  Mrs.  Crummies?" 

"Why,  no,"  said  the  collector;  "they  couldn't  very  well 
dispose  of  her  at  night,  and  so  she  is  staying  with  an  ac- 
quaintance of  hers,  and  another  young  lady;  they  both 
belong  to  the  theatre." 

"Miss  Snevellicci,  I  suppose?"  said  Nicholas. 

"Yes,  that's  the  name." 

"And  they'll  be  bridesmaids,  I  presume?"  said  Nicholas, 

"Why,"  said  the  collector,  with  a  rueful  face,  "they  will 
have  four  bridesmaids;  I'm  afraid  they'll  make  it  rather 
theatrical." 

"Oh  no,  not  at  all,"  replied  Nicholas,  with  an  awkward 
attempt  to  convert  a  laugh  into  a  cough.  "Who  may  the 
four  be?  Miss  Snevellicci  of  course — Miss  Ledrook " 

"The — the  phenomenon,"  groaned  the  collector. 

"Ha,  ha!"  cried  Nicholas.  "I  beg  your  pardon,  I  don't 
know  what  I'm  laughing  at — yes,  that'll  be  very  pretty — 
the  phenomenon — who  else?" 

"Some  young  woman  or  other,"  replied  the  collector, 
rising;  "some  other  friend  of  Henrietta  Petowker's.  Well, 
you'll  be  careful  not  to  say  anything  about  it,  will  you?" 

"You  may  safely  depend  upon  me,"  replied  Nicholas. 
"Won't  you  take  anything  to  eat  or  drink?" 

"No,"  said  the  collector;  "I  haven't  any  appetite.  I 
should  think  it  was  a  very  pleasant  life,  the  married  one,  eh?  " 

"I  have  not  the  least  doubt  of  it,"  rejoined  Nicholas. 

"Yes,"  said  the  collector;  "certainly.  Oh  yes.  No 
doubt.     Good  night." 

With  these  words,  Mr.  Lillyvick,  whose  manner  had 
exhibited  through  the  whole  of  this  interview  a  most  extra- 
ordinary compound  of  precipitation,  hesitation,  confidence 
and  doubt,  fondness,  misgiving,  meanness,  and  self-import- 
ance, turned  his  back  upon  the  room,  and  left  Nicholas  to 
enjoy  a  laugh  by  himself  if  he  felt  so  disposed. 


The  Vincent  Crummies  Company  179 

Without  stopping  to  inquire  whether  the  intervening  day 
appeared  to  Nicholas  to  consist  of  the  usual  number  of 
hours  of  the  ordinary  length,  it  may  be  remarked  that,  to  the 
parties  more  directly  interested  in  the  forthcoming  cere- 
mony, it  passed  with  great  rapidity,  insomuch  that  when 
Miss  Petowker  awoke  on  the  succeeding  morning  in  the 
chamber  of  Miss  Snevellicci,  she  declared  that  nothing  should 
ever  persuade  her  that  that  really  was  the  day  which  was  to 
behold  a  change  in  her  condition. 

"I  never  will  believe  it,"  said  Miss  Petowker;  "I  cannot 
really.  It's  of  no  use  talking,  I  never  can  make  up  my  mind 
to  go  through  with  such  a  trial!" 

On  hearing  this,  Miss  Snevellicci,  and  Miss  Ledrook,  who 
knew  perfectly  well  that  their  fair  friend's  mind  had  been 
made  up  for  three  or  four  years,  at  any  period  of  which  time 
she  would  have  cheerfully  undergone  the  desperate  trial  now 
approaching  if  she  could  have  found  any  eligible  gentleman 
disposed  for  the  venture,  began  to  preach  comfort  and  firm- 
ness, and  to  say  how  very  proud  she  ought  to  feel  that  it 
was  in  her  power  to  confer  lasting  bliss  on  a  deserving  ob- 
ject, and  how  necessary  it  was  for  the  happiness  of  mankind 
in  general  that  women  should  possess  fortitude  and  resigna- 
tion on  such  occasions;  and  that  although  for  their  parts 
they  held  true  happiness  to  consist  in  a  single  life,  which 
they  would  not  willingly  exchange — no,  not  for  any  worldly 
consideration — still  (thank  Heaven),  if  ever  the  time 
should  come,  they  hoped  they  knew  their  duty  too  well  to 
repine,  but  would  the  rather  submit  with  meekness  and 
humility  of  spirit  to  a  fate  for  which  Providence  had  clearly 
designed  them  with  a  view  to  the  contentment  and  reward 
of  their  fellow-creatures. 

"I  might  feel  it  was  a  great  blow,"  said  Miss  Snevellicci, 
"to  break  up  old  associations  and  what-do-you-callems  of 
that  kind,  but  I  would  submit,  my  dear,  I  would  indeed." 

"So  would  I,"  said  Miss  Ledrook;  "I  would  rather  court 


i8o      Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

the  yoke  than  shun  it.  I  have  broken  hearts  before  now, 
and  I'm  very  sorry  for  it.  It's  a  terrible  thing  to  reflect 
upon." 

"It  is  indeed,"  said  Miss  SneveUicci.  "Now  Led,  my 
dear,  we  must  positively  get  her  ready,  or  we  shall  be  too 
late,  we  shall  indeed." 

This  pious  reasoning,  and  perhaps  the  fear  of  being  too 
late,  supported  the  bride  through  the  ceremony  of  robing, 
after  which,  strong  tea  and  brandy  were  administered  in 
alternate  doses  as  a  means  of  strengthening  her  feeble  limbs 
and  causing  her  to  walk  steadier. 

"How  do  you  feel  now,  my  love?"  inquired  Miss 
SneveUicci. 

"Oh  Lillyvick!"  cried  the  bride.  "If  you  knew  what  I 
am  undergoing  for  you!" 

"Of  course  he  knows  it,  love,  and  will  never  forget  it," 
said  Miss  Ledrook. 

"Do  you  think  he  won't?"  cried  Miss  Petowker,  really 
showing  great  capability  for  the  stage.  "Oh,  do  you  think 
he  won't?  Do  you  think  Lillyvick  will  always  remember  it 
— always,  always,  always?" 

There  is  no  knowing  in  what  this  burst  of  feeling  might 
have  ended,  if  Miss  SneveUicci  had  not  at  that  moment 
proclaimed  the  arrival  of  the  fly,  which  so  astounded  the 
bride  that  she  shook  off  divers  alarming  symptoms  which 
were  coming  on  very  strong,  and  running  to  the  glass  ad- 
justed her  dress,  and  calmly  declared  that  she  was  ready 
for  the  sacrifice. 

She  was  accordingly  supported  into  the  coach  and  there 
"kept  up"  (as  Miss  SneveUicci  said)  with  perpetual  sniffs 
of  sal  volatile  and  sips  of  brandy  and  other  gentle  stimulants, 
until  they  reached  the  manager's  door,  which  was  already 
opened  by  the  two  Master  Crummleses,  who  wore  white 
cockades,  and  were  decorated  with  the  choicest  and  most 
resplendent  waistcoats  in  the  theatrical  wardrobe.     By  the 


The  Vincent  Crummies  Company  i8i 

combined  exertions  of  these  young  gentlemen  and  the 
bridesmaids,  assisted  by  the  coachman,  Miss  Petowker  was 
at  length  supported  in  a  condition  of  much  exhaustion  to 
the  first  floor,  where  she  no  sooner  encountered  the  youthful 
bridegroom  than  she  fainted  with  great  decorum. 

"Henrietta  Petowker!"  said  the  collector;  "cheer  up,  my 
lovely  one." 

Miss  Petowker  grasped  the  collector's  hand,  but  emotion 
choked  her  utterance. 

"Is  the  sight  of  me  so  dreadful,  Henrietta  Petowker?" 
said  the  collector. 

"Oh  no,  no,  no"  rejoined  the  bride;  "but  all  the  friends, 
the  darling  friends,  of  my  youthful  days — to  leave  them  all 
— it  is  such  a  shock!" 

With  such  expressions  of  sorrow.  Miss  Petowker  went  on 
to  enumerate  the  dear  friends  of  her  youthful  days  one  by 
one,  and  to  call  upon  such  of  them  as  were  present  to  come 
and  embrace  her.  This  done,  she  remembered  that  Mrs. 
Crummies  had  been  more  than  a  mother  to  her,  and  after 
that,  that  Mr.  Crummies  had  been  more  than  a  father  to 
her,  and  after  that,  that  the  Master  Crummleses  and  Miss 
Ninetta  Crummies  had  been  more  than  brothers  and  sisters 
to  her.  These  various  remembrances  being  each  accom- 
panied with  a  series  of  hugs,  occupied  a  long  time,  and  they 
were  obliged  to  drive  to  church  very  fast,  for  fear  they 
should  be  too  late. 

The  procession  consisted  of  two  flys ;  in  the  first  of  which 
were  MissBravassa  (thefourth  bridesmaid),  Mrs.  Crummies, 
the  collector,  and  Mr.  Folair,  who  had  been  chosen  as  his 
second  on  the  occasion.  In  the  other  were  the  bride,  Mr. 
Crummies,  Miss  Snevellicci,  Miss  Ledrook,  and  the  phenom- 
enon. The  costumes  were  beautiful.  The  bridesmaids 
were  quite  covered  with  artificial  flowers,  and  the  phenom- 
enon, in  particular,  was  rendered  almost  invisible  by  the 
portable  arbour  in  which  she  was  enshrined.    Miss  Ledrook, 


1 82      Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

who  was  of  a  romantic  turn,  wore  in  her  breast  the  minia- 
ture of  some  field-officer  unknown,  which  she  had  purchased, 
a  great  bargain,  not  very  long  before;  the  other  ladies  dis- 
played several  dazzling  articles  of  imitative  jewellery,  almost 
equal  to  real;  and  Mrs.  Crummies  came  out  in  a  stern  and 
gloomy  majesty,  which  attracted  the  admiration  of  all 
beholders. 

But,  perhaps  the  appearance  of  Mr.  Crummies  was  more 
striking  and  appropriate  than  that  of  any  member  of  the 
party.  This  gentleman,  who  personated  the  bride's  father, 
had,  in  pursuance  of  a  happy  and  original  conception, 
"made  up"  for  the  part  by  arraying  himself  in  a  theatrical 
wig,  of  a  style  and  pattern  commonly  known  as  a  brown 
George,  and  moreover  assuming  a  snuff-coloured  suit,  of  the 
previous  century,  with  grey  silk  stockings,  and  buckles  to 
his  shoes.  The  better  to  support  his  assumed  character  he 
had  determined  to  be  greatly  overcome,  and,  consequently, 
when  they  entered  the  church,  the  sobs  of  the  affectionate 
parent  were  so  heartrending  that  the  pew-opener  suggested 
the  propriety  of  his  retiring  to  the  vestry,  and  comforting 
himself  with  a  glass  of  water  before  the  ceremony  began. 

The  procession  up  the  aisle  was  beautiful.  The  bride, 
with  the  four  bridesmaids,  forming  a  group  previously  ar- 
ranged and  rehearsed;  the  collector,  followed  by  his  second, 
imitating  his  walk  and  gestures,  to  the  indescribable  amuse- 
ment of  some  theatrical  friends  in  the  gallery;  Mr. 
Crummies,  with  an  infirm  and  feeble  gait;  Mrs,  Crummies 
advancing  with  that  stage  walk,  which  consists  of  a  stride 
and  a  stop  alternately;  it  was  the  completest  thing  ever 
witnessed.  The  ceremony  was  very  quickly  disposed  of, 
and  all  parties  present  having  signed  the  register  (for  which 
purpose,  when  it  came  to  his  turn,  Mr.  Crummies  carefully 
wiped  and  put  on  an  immense  pair  of  spectacles),  they  went 
back  to  breakfast  in  high  spirits.  And  here  they  found 
Nicholas  awaiting  their  arrival. 


The  Vincent  Crummies  Company  183 

"Now  then,"  said  Crummies,  who  had  been  assisting  Mrs. 
Grudden  in  the  preparations,  which  were  on  a  more  exten- 
sive scale  than  was  quite  agreeable  to  the  collector.  "  Break- 
fast, breakfast." 

No  second  invitation  was  required.  The  company 
crowded  and  squeezed  themselves  at  the  table  as  well  as  they 
could,  and  fell  to,  immediately :  Miss  Petowker  blushing 
very  much  when  anybody  was  looking  and  eating  very  much 
when  anybody  was  7iot  looking;  and  Mr.  Lilly vick  going  to 
work  as  though  with  the  cool  resolve,  that  since  the  good 
things  must  be  paid  for  by  him,  he  would  leave  as  little  as 
possible  for  the  Crummleses  to  eat  up  afterwards. 

"It's  very  soon  done,  sir,  isn't  it?"  inquired  Mr.  Folair 
of  the  collector,  leaning  over  the  table  to  address  him. 

"What  is  soon  done,  sir.'"  returned  Mr.  Lilly  vick. 

"The  tying  up,  the  fixing  oneself  with  a  wife,"  replied 
Mr.  Folair.     "It  don't  take  long,  does  it?" 

"  No,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Lilly  vick,  colouring.  "  It  does  not 
take  long.     And  what  then,  sir?" 

"Oh!  nothing,"  said  the  actor.  "It  don't  take  a  man 
long  to  hang  himself,  either,  eh?     Ha,  ha!" 

Mr.  Lillyvick  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork  and  looked 
round  the  table  with  indignant  astonishment. 

"To  hang  himself!"  repeated  Mr.  Lillyvick. 

A  profound  silence  came  upon  all,  for  Mr.  Lillyvick  was 
dignified  beyond  expression. 

"To  hang  himself!"  cried  Mr.  Lillyvick  again.  "Is  any 
parallel  attempted  to  be  drawn  in  this  company  between 
matrimony  and  hanging?" 

"The  noose,  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Folair,  a  little  crest- 
fallen. 

"The  noose,  sir?"  retorted  Mr.  Lillyvick.  "Does  any 
man  dare  to  speak  to  me  of  a  noose,  and  Henrietta  Pe " 

"Lillyvick,"  suggested  Mr.  Crummies. 

" — and  Henrietta  Lillyvick  in  the  same  breath?"  said 


i84      Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

the  collector.  "In  this  house,  in  the  presence  of  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Crummies,  who  have  brought  up  a  talented  and  virtu- 
ous family,  to  be  blessings  and  phenomenons,  and  what  not, 
are  we  to  hear  talk  of  nooses?" 

"Folair,"  said  Mr.  Crummies,  deeming  it  a  matter  of 
decency  to  be  affected  by  this  allusion  to  himself  and 
partner,  "I'm  astonished  at  you." 

"What  are  you  going  on  in  this  way  at  me  for?"  urged 
the  unfortunate  actor.     "What  have  I  done?" 

"Done,  sir!"  cried  Mr.  Lilly vick,  "aimed  a  blow  at  the 
whole  framework  of  society " 

"And  the  best  and  tenderest  feelings,"  added  Crummies, 
relapsing  into  the  old  man. 

"And  the  highest  and  most  estimable  of  social  ties,"  said 
the  collector.  "  Noose !  As  if  one  was  caught,  trapped  into 
the  married  state,  pinned  by  the  leg,  instead  of  going  into  it 
of  one's  own  accord  and  glorying  in  the  act!" 

"I  didn't  mean  to  make  it  out,  that  you  were  caught  and 
trapped,  and  pinned  by  the  leg,"  replied  the  actor.  "I'm 
sorry  for  it;  I  can't  say  any  more." 

"So  you  ought  to  be,  sir,"  returned  Mr.  Lilly  vick;  "and 
I  am  glad  to  hear  that  you  have  enough  of  feeling  left  to 
be  so." 

The  quarrel  appearing  to  terminate  with  this  reply,  Mrs. 
Lilly  vick  considered  that  the  fittest  occasion  (the  attention 
of  the  company  being  no  longer  distracted)  to  burst  into 
tears,  and  require  the  assistance  of  all  four  bridesmaids, 
which  was  immediately  rendered,  though  not  without  some 
confusion,  for  the  room  being  small  and  the  table-cloth  long, 
a  whole  detachment  of  plates  were  swept  off  the  board  at  the 
very  first  move.  Regardless  of  this  circumstance,  however, 
Mrs.  Lillyvick  refused  to  be  comforted  until  the  belligerents 
had  passed  their  words  that  the  dispute  should  be  carried  no 
further,  which,  after  a  suflBcient  show  of  reluctance,  they 
did,  and  from  that  time  Mr.  Folair  sat  in  moody  silence. 


The  Vincent  Crummies  Company  185 

contenting  himself  with  pinching  Nicholas's  leg  when  any- 
thing was  said,  and  so  expressing  his  contempt  both  for  the 
speaker  and  the  sentiments  to  which  he  gave  utterance. 

There  were  a  great  number  of  speeches  made;  some  by 
Nicholas,  and  some  by  Crummies,  and  some  by  the  col- 
lector; two  by  the  Master  Crummleses  in  returning  thanks 
for  themselves,  and  one  by  the  phenomenon  on  behalf  of  the 
bridesmaids,  at  which  Mrs.  Crummies  shed  tears.  There 
was  some  singing,  too,  from  Miss  Ledrook  and  Miss 
Bravassa,  and  very  likely  there  might  have  been  more,  if 
the  fly-driver,  who  stopped  to  drive  the  happy  pair  to  the 
spot  where  they  proposed  to  take  steamboat  to  Ryde,  had 
not  sent  in  a  peremptory  message  intimating,  that  if  they 
didn't  come  directly  he  should  infallibly  demand  eighteen- 
pence  over  and  above  his  agreement. 

This  desperate  threat  effectually  broke  up  the  party. 
After  a  most  pathetic  leave-taking,  Mr.  Lillyvick  and  his 
bride  departed  for  Ryde  where  they  were  to  spend  the  next 
two  days  in  profound  retirement,  and  whither  they  were 
accompanied  by  the  infant,  who  had  been  appointed 
travelling  bridesmaid  on  Mr.  Lilly vick's  express  stipulation: 
as  the  steamboat  people,  deceived  by  her  size,  would  (he 
had  previously  ascertained)  transport  her  at  half-price. 

OF  THE  PROCEEDINGS  OF  NICHOLAS,  AND  CERTAIN  INTERNAL 
DIVISIONS   IN   THE    COMPANY  OF   MR.    VINCENT    CRUMMLES 

The  unexpected  success  and  favour  with  which  his  ex- 
periment at  Portsmouth  had  been  received,  induced  Mr. 
Crummies  to  prolong  his  stay  in  that  town  for  a  fortnight 
beyond  the  period  he  had  originally  assigned  for  the  dura- 
tion of  his  visit,  during  which  time  Nicholas  personated  a 
vast  variety  of  characters  with  undiminished  success  and 
attracted  so  many  people  to  the  theatre  who  had  never 
been  seen  there  before,  that  a  benefit  was  considered  by  the 


1 86      Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

manager  a  very  promising  speculation.  Nicholas  assent- 
ing to  the  terms  proposed,  the  benefit  was  had,  and  by  it 
he  realized  no  less  a  sum  than  twenty  pounds. 

"You  are  out  of  spirits,"  said  Smike,  on  the  following 
night. 

"Not  I!"  rejoined  Nicholas,  with  assumed  gaiety,  for  the 
confession  would  have  made  the  boy  miserable  all  night; 
"I  was  thinking  about  my  sister,  Smike," 

"Sister!" 

"Aye." 

"Is  she  like  you?"  inquired  Smike. 

"Why,  so  they  say,"  replied  Nicholas,  laughing,  "only  a 
great  deal  handsomer." 

"She  must  be  very  beautiful,"  said  Smike,  after  thinking 
a  little  while  with  his  hands  folded  together,  and  his  eyes 
bent  upon  his  friend. 

"Anybody  who  didn't  know  you  as  well  as  I  do,  my  dear 
fellow,  would  say  you  were  an  accomplished  courtier,"  said 
Nicholas. 

"I  don't  even  know  what  that  is,"  replied  Smike,  shaking 
his  head.     "Shall  I  ever  see  your  sister.'*" 

"To  be  sure,"  cried  Nicholas;  "we  shall  all  be  together 
one  of  these  days — when  we  are  rich,  Smike." 

"How  is  it  that  you,  who  are  so  kind  and  good  to  me, 
have  nobody  to  be  kind  to  you?"  asked  Smike.  "I  cannot 
make  that  out." 

"Why,  it  is  a  long  story,"  replied  Nicholas,  "and  one  you 
would  have  some  difficulty  in  comprehending,  I  fear.  I 
have  an  enemy — you  understand  what  that  is?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  understand  that,"  said  Smike. 

"  Well,  it  is  owing  to  him,"  returned  Nicholas.  "He  is  rich, 
and  not  so  easily  punished  as  your  old  enemy,  Mr.  Squeers. 
He  is  my  uncle,  but  he  is  a  villain,  and  has  done  me  wrong." 

"Has  he  though? "  asked  Smike,  bending  eagerly  forward. 
"What  is  his  name?     Tell  me  his  name." 


The  Vincent  Crummies  Company  187 

"Ralph— Ralph  Nickleby." 

"Ralph  Nickleby,"  repeated  Smike.  "Ralph.  I'll  get 
that  name  by  heart." 

He  had  muttered  it  over  to  himself  some  twenty  times, 
when  a  loud  knock  at  the  door  disturbed  him  from  his  occu- 
pation. Before  he  could  open  it,  Mr.  Folair,  the  panto- 
mimist,  thrust  in  his  head. 

Mr.  Folair's  head  was  usually  decorated  with  a  very 
round  hat,  usually  high  in  the  crown,  and  curled  up  quite 
tight  in  the  brim.  On  the  present  occasion  he  wore  it  very 
much  on  one  side,  with  the  back  part  forward  in  consequence 
of  its  being  the  least  rusty;  round  his  neck  he  wore  a  flaming 
red  worsted  comforter,  whereof  the  straggling  ends  peeped 
out  beneath  his  threadbare  Newmarket  coat,  which  was 
tight  and  buttoned  all  the  way  up.  He  carried  in  his  hand 
one  very  dirty  glove,  and  a  cheap  dress  cane  with  a  glass 
handle;  in  short,  his  whole  appearance  was  unusually  dash- 
ing, and  demonstrated  a  far  more  scrupulous  attention  to 
his  toilet,  than  he  was  in  the  habit  of  bestowing  upon  it. 

"Good  evening,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Folair,  taking  off  the  tall 
hat,  and  running  his  fingers  through  his  hair.  "I  bring  a 
communication.     Hem!" 

"From  whom  and  what  about?"  inquired  Nicholas. 
"You  are  unusually  mysterious  to-night." 

"Cold,  perhaps,"  returned  Mr.  Folair;  "cold,  perhaps. 
That  is  the  fault  of  my  position — not  of  myself,  Mr.  John- 
son. My  position  as  a  mutual  friend  requires  it,  sir."  Mr. 
Folair  paused  with  a  most  impressive  look,  and  diving  into 
the  hat  before  noticed,  drew  from  thence  a  small  piece  of 
whity-brown  paper  curiously  folded,  whence  he  brought 
forth  a  note  which  it  had  served  to  keep  clean,  and  handing 
it  over  to  Nicholas,  said 

"Have  the  goodness  to  read  that,  sir." 

Nicholas,  in  a  state  of  much  amazement,  took  the  note 
and  broke  the  seal,  glancing  at  Mr.  Folair  as  he  did  so,  who, 


1 88     Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play- 
knitting  his  brow  and  pursing  up  his  mouth  with  great 
dignity,  was  sitting  with  his  eyes  steadily  fixed  upon  the 
ceiHng. 

It  was  directed  to  blank  Johnson,  Esq.,  by  favour  of 
Augustus  Folair,  Esq.,  and  the  astonishment  of  Nicholas 
was  in  no  degree  lessened,  when  he  found  it  to  be  couched 
in  the  following  laconic  terms: — 

"  Mr.  Lenville  presents  his  kind  regards  to  Mr.  Johnson, 
and  will  feel  obliged  if  he  will  inform  him  at  what  hour 
to-morrow  morning  it  will  be  most  convenient  to  him  to 
meet  Mr.  L.  at  the  Theatre,  for  the  purpose  of  having  his 
nose  pulled  in  the  presence  of  the  company. 

"  Mr.  Lenville  requests  Mr.  Johnson  not  to  neglect  mak- 
ing an  appointment,  as  he  has  invited  two  or  three  profes- 
sional friends  to  witness  the  ceremony,  and  cannot 
disappoint  them  upon  any  account  whatever. 

*' Portsmouth,  Tuesday  night.'' 

Indignant  as  he  was  at  this  impertinence,  there  was 
something  so  exquisitely  absurd  in  such  a  cartel  of  defiance, 
that  Nicholas  was  obliged  to  bite  his  lip  and  read  the  note 
over  two  or  three  times  before  he  could  muster  suflBcient 
gravity  and  sternness  to  address  the  hostile  messenger,  who 
had  not  taken  his  eyes  from  the  ceiling,  nor  altered  the 
expression  of  his  face  in  the  slightest  degree. 

"Do  you  know  the  contents  of  this  note,  sir?"  he  asked, 
at  length. 

"Yes,"  rejoined  Mr.  Folair,  looking  round  for  an  instant, 
and  immediately  carrying  his  eyes  back  again  to  the  ceiling. 

"And  how  dare  you  bring  it  here,  sir?"  asked  Nicholas, 
tearing  it  into  very  little  pieces,  and  jerking  it  in  a  shower 
towards  the  messenger.  "Had  you  no  fear  of  being  kicked 
downstairs,  sir?" 

Mr.    Folair    turned    his    head — now    ornamented    with 


The  Vincent  Crummies  Company  189 

several  fragments  of  the  note — towards  Nicholas,  and  with 
the  same  imperturbable  dignity,  briefly  replied,  "No." 

"Then,"  said  Nicholas,  taking  up  the  tall  hat  and  tossing 
it  towards  the  door,  "you  had  better  follow  that  article  of 
your  dress,  sir,  or  you  may  find  youself  very  disagreeably 
deceived,  and  that  within  a  dozen  seconds." 

"I  say,  Johnson,"  remonstrated  Mr.  Folair,  suddenly 
losing  all  his  dignity,  "none  of  that,  you  know.  No  tricks 
with  a  gentleman's  wardrobe." 

"Leave  the  room,"  returned  Nicholas.  "How  could  you 
presume  to  come  here  on  such  an  errand,  you  scoundrel?" 

"Pooh!  pooh!"  said  Mr.  Folair,  unwinding  his  comforter, 
and  gradually  getting  himself  out  of  it.  "There — that's 
enough." 

"Enough!"  cried  Nicholas,  advancing  towards  him. 
"Take  yourself  off,  sir." 

"Pooh!  pooh!  I  tell  you,"  returned  Mr.  Folair,  waving 
his  hand  in  deprecation  of  any  further  wrath;  "I  wasn't  in 
earnest.     I  only  brought  it  in  joke." 

"You  had  better  be  careful  how  you  indulge  in  such  jokes 
again,"  said  Nicholas,  "or  you  may  find  an  allusion  to  pull- 
ing noses  rather  a  dangerous  reminder  for  the  subject  of 
your  facetiousness.     Was  it  written  in  joke,  too,  pray.''" 

"No,  no,  that's  the  best  of  it,"  returned  the  actor;  "right 
down  earnest — honour  bright." 

Nicholas  could  not  repress  a  smile  at  the  odd  figure  before 
him,  which,  at  all  times  more  calculated  to  provoke  mirth 
than  anger,  was  especially  so  at  that  moment,  when  with 
one  knee  upon  the  ground,  Mr.  Folair  twirled  his  old  hat 
round  upon  his  hand,  and  affected  the  extremest  agony  lest 
any  of  the  nap  should  have  been  knocked  off — an  ornament 
which  it  is  almost  superfluous  to  say,  it  had  not  boasted  for 
many  months. 

"Come,  sir,"  said  Nicholas,  laughing  in  spite  of  himself. 
"Have  the  goodness  to  explain." 


190     Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

"Why,  I'll  tell  you  how  it  is,"  said  Mr.  Folair,  sitting 
himself  down  in  a  chair  with  great  coolness.  "Since  you 
came  here  Lenville  has  done  nothing  but  second  business, 
and,  instead  of  having  a  reception  every  night  as  he 
used  to  have,  they  have  let  him  come  on  as  if  he  was 
nobody." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  a  reception?"  asked  Nicholas. 

"Jupiter!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Folair,  "what  an  unsophisti- 
cated shepherd  you  are,  Johnson !  Why,  applause  from  the 
house  when  you  first  come  on.  So  he  has  gone  on  night 
after  night,  never  getting  a  hand,  and  you  getting  a  couple 
of  rounds  at  least,  and  sometimes  three,  till  at  length  he  got 
quite  desperate,  and  had  half  a  mind  last  night  to  play 
Tybalt  with  a  real  sword,  and  pink  you — not  dangerously, 
but  just  enough  to  lay  you  up  for  a  month  or  two." 

"Very  considerate,"  remarked  Nicholas. 

"Yes,  I  think  it  was,  under  the  circumstances;  his  pro- 
fessional reputation  being  at  stake,"  said  Mr,  Folair,  quite 
seriously.  "But  his  heart  failed  him,  and  he  cast  about  for 
some  other  way  of  annoying  you,  and  making  himself  popu- 
lar at  the  same  time — for  that's  the  point.  Notoriety, 
notoriety,  is  the  thing.  Bless  you,  if  he  had  pinked  you," 
said  Mr.  Folair,  stopping  to  make  a  calculation  in  his  mind, 
"it  would  have  been  worth — ah,  it  would  have  been  worth 
eight  to  ten  shillings  a  week  to  him.  All  the  town  would 
have  come  to  see  the  actor  who  nearly  killed  a  man  by  mis- 
take; I  shouldn't  wonder  if  it  had  got  him  an  engagement 
in  London.  However,  he  was  obliged  to  try  some  other 
mode  of  getting  popular,  and  this  one  occurred  to  him.  It's 
a  clever  idea,  really.  If  you  had  shown  the  white  feather, 
and  let  him  pull  your  nose,  he'd  have  got  it  into  the  paper; 
if  you  had  sworn  the  peace  Against  him,  it  would  have  been 
in  the  paper  too,  and  he'd  have  been  just  as  much  talked 
about  as  you — don't  you  see?" 

"Oh  certainly,"  rejoined  Nicholas;  "but  suppose  I  were 


The  Vincent  Crummies  Company  191 

to  turn  the  tables,  and  pull  his  nose,  what  then?  Would 
that  make  his  fortune?" 

"Why,  I  don't  think  it  would,"  replied  Mr.  Folair, 
scratching  his  head,  "because  there  wouldn't  be  any 
romance  about  it,  and  he  wouldn't  be  favourably  known. 
To  tell  you  the  truth  though,  he  didn't  calculate  much  upon 
that,  for  you're  always  so  mild  spoken,  and  are  so  popular 
among  the  women,  that  we  didn't  suspect  you  of  showing 
fight.  If  you  did,  however,  he  has  a  way  of  getting  out 
of  it  easily,  depend  upon  that." 

"Has  he?"  rejoined  Nicholas.  "We  will  try  to-morrow 
morning.  In  the  meantime,  you  can  give  whatever  account 
of  our  interview  you  like  best.     Good  night." 

As  Mr.  Folair  was  pretty  well  known  among  his  fellow- 
actors  for  a  man  who  delighted  in  mischief,  and  was  by  no 
means  scrupulous,  Nicholas  had  not  much  doubt  but  that 
he  had  secretly  prompted  the  tragedian  in  the  course  he  had 
taken,  and,  moreover,  that  he  would  have  carried  his  mission 
with  a  very  high  hand  if  he  had  not  been  disconcerted  by 
the  very  unexpected  demonstrations  with  which  it  had  been 
received.  It  was  not  worth  his  while  to  be  serious  with  him, 
however,  so  he  dismissed  the  pantomimist,  with  a  gentle 
hint  that  if  he  offended  again  it  would  be  under  the  penalty 
of  a  broken  head;  and  Mr.  Folair,  taking  the  caution  in 
exceedingly  good  part,  walked  away  to  confer  with  his 
principal,  and  give  such  an  account  of  his  proceedings  as  he 
might  think  best  calculated  to  carry  on  the  joke. 

He  had  no  doubt  reported  that  Nicholas  was  in  a  state  of 
extreme  bodily  fear;  for  when  that  young  gentleman  walked 
with  much  deliberation  down  to  the  theatre  next  morning 
at  the  usual  hour,  he  found  all  the  company  assembled  in 
evident  expectation,  and  Mr.  Lenville,  with  his  severest 
stage  face,  sitting  majestically  on  a  table,  whistling  defiance. 

Now  the  ladies  were  on  the  side  of  Nicholas,  and  the 
gentlemen  (being  jealous)  were  on  the  side  of  the  disap- 


192      Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

pointed  tragedian;  so  that  the  latter  formed  a  little  group 
about  the  redoubtable  Mr.  Lenville,  and  the  former  looked 
on  at  a  little  distance  in  some  trepidation  and  anxiety.  On 
Nicholas  stopping  to  salute  them,  Mr,  Lenville  laughed  a 
scornful  laugh,  and  made  some  general  remark  touching  the 
natural  history  of  puppies. 

"Oh!  said  Nicholas,  looking  quietly  round,  "are  you 
there?" 

"Slave!"  returned  Mr.  Lenville,  flourishing  his  right  arm, 
and  approaching  Nicholas  with  a  theatrical  stride.  But 
somehow  he  appeared  just  at  that  moment  a  little  startled, 
as  if  Nicholas  did  not  look  quite  so  frightened  as  he  had 
expected,  and  came  all  at  once  to  an  awkward  halt,  at 
which  the  assembled  ladies  burst  into  a  shrill  laugh. 

"Object  of  my  scorn  and  hatred!"  said  Mr.  Lenville,  "I 
hold  ye  in  contempt." 

Nicholas  laughed  in  very  unexpected  enjoyment  of  this 
performance;  and  the  ladies,  by  way  of  encouragement, 
laughed  louder  than  before;  whereat  Mr.  Lenville  assumed 
his  bitterest  smile,  and  expressed  his  opinion  that  they  were 
"minions." 

"But  they  shall  not  protect  ye!"  said  the  tragedian, 
taking  an  upward  look  at  Nicholas,  beginning  at  his  boots 
and  ending  at  the  crown  of  his  head,  and  then  a  downward 
one,  beginning  at  the  crown  of  his  head,  and  ending  at  his 
boots — which  two  looks,  as  everybody  knows,  express 
defiance  on  the  stage.     "They  shall  not  protect  ye — boy!" 

Thus  speaking,  Mr.  Lenville  folded  his  arms,  and  treated 
Nicholas  to  that  expression  of  face  with  which,  in  melo- 
dramatic performances,  he  was  in  the  habit  of  regarding 
the  tyrannical  kings  when  they  said,  "Away  with  him  to  the 
deepest  dungeon  beneath  the  castle  moat;"  and  which, 
accompanied  with  a  little  jingling  of  fetters,  had  been 
known  to  produce  great  effects  in  its  time. 

Whether  it  was  absence  of  the  fetters  or  not,  it  made 


The  Vincent  Crummies  Company  193 

no  very  deep  impression  on  Mr.  Lenville's  adversary,  how- 
ever, but  rather  seemed  to  increase  the  good  humour  ex- 
pressed in  his  countenance;  in  which  stage  of  the  contest, 
one  or  two  gentlemen,  who  had  come  out  expressly  to  wit- 
ness the  pulling  of  Nicholas's  nose,  grew  impatient,  murmur- 
ing that  if  it  were  to  be  done  at  all  it  had  better  be  done  at 
once,  and  that  if  Mr.  Lenville  didn't  mean  to  do  it  he  had 
better  say  so  and  not  keep  them  waiting  there.  Thus  urged 
the  tragedian  adjusted  the  cuff  of  his  right  coat  sleeve  for 
the  performance  of  the  operation,  and  walked  in  a  very 
stately  manner  up  to  Nicholas,  who  sufiFered  him  to  approach 
to  within  the  requisite  distance,  and  then,  without  the 
smallest  discomposure,  knocked  him  down. 

Before  the  discomfited  tragedian  could  raise  his  head 
from  the  boards,  Mrs,  Lenville  (who,  as  has  been  before 
hinted,  was  in  an  interesting  state)  rushed  from  the  rear 
rank  of  ladies,  and  uttering  a  piercing  scream  threw  herself 
upon  the  body. 

"Do  you  see  this,  monster?  Do  you  see  this?''  cried  Mr. 
Len\'ille,  sitting  up,  and  pointing  to  his  prostrate  lady,  who 
was  holding  him  very  tight  round  the  waist. 

"Come,"  said  Nicholas,  nodding  his  head,  "apologize  for 
the  insolent  note  you  wrote  to  me  last  night,  and  waste  no 
more  time  in  talking." 

"Never!"  cried  Mr.  Lenville. 

"Yes — yes — yes!"  screamed  his  wife.  "For  my  sake — 
for  mine,  Lenville — forego  all  idle  forms,  unless  you  would 
see  me  a  blighted  corse  at  your  feet." 

"This  is  affecting!"  said  Mr.  Lenville,  looking  round 
him,  and  drawing  the  back  of  his  hand  across  his  eyes. 
"The  ties  of  nature  are  strong.  The  weak  husband  and 
the  father — the  father  that  is  yet  to  be — relents.  I 
apologize." 

"Humbly  and  submissively?"  said  Nicholas. 

"Humbly  and  submissively,"  returned  the  tragedian, 

13 


194     Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

scowling  upwards.  "But  only  to  save  her, — for  a  time  will 
come " 

"Very  good,"  said  Nicholas;  "I  hope  Mrs.  Lenville  may 
have  a  good  one;  and  when  it  does  come,  and  you  are  a 
father,  you  shall  retract  it  if  you  have  the  courage.  There. 
Be  careful,  sir,  to  what  lengths  your  jealousy  carries  you 
another  time;  and  be  careful,  also,  before  you  venture  too 
far,  to  ascertain  your  rival's  temper."  With  this  parting 
advice  Nicholas  picked  up  Mr.  Lenville's  ash  stick  which 
had  flown  out  of  his  hand,  and  breaking  it  in  half,  threw  him 
the  pieces  and  withdrew. 

The  profoundest  deference  was  paid  to  Nicholas  that 
night  and  the  people  who  had  been  most  anxious  to  have 
his  nose  pulled  in  the  morning,  embraced  occasions  of  taking 
him  aside,  and  telling  him  with  great  feeling,  how  very 
friendly  they  took  it  that  he  should  have  treated  that  Len- 
ville so  properly,  who  was  a  most  unbearable  fellow,  and  on 
whom  they  had  all  by  a  remarkable  coincidence  at  one  time 
or  other  contemplated  the  infliction  of  condign  punishment, 
which  they  had  only  been  restrained  from  administering 
by  considerations  of  mercy;  indeed,  to  judge  from  the  invari- 
able termination  of  all  these  stories,  there  never  was  such 
a  charitable  and  kind-hearted  set  of  people  as  the  male 
members  of  Mr.  Crummles's  company. 

Nicholas  bore  his  triumph,  as  he  had  his  success  in  the 
little  world  of  the  theatre,  with  the  utmost  moderation  and 
good  humour.  The  crestfallen  Mr.  Lenville  made  an  expir- 
ing effort  to  obtain  revenge  by  sending  a  boy  into  the  gallery 
to  hiss,  but  he  fell  a  sacrifice  to  popular  indignation,  and 
was  promptly  turned  out  without  having  his  money  back. 

"Well,  Smike,"  said  Nicholas  when  the  first  piece  was 
over,  and  he  had  almost  finished  dressing  to  go  home,  "is 
there  any  letter  yet?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Smike,  "I  got  this  one  from  the  post- 
office." 


The  Vincent  Crummies  Company  195 

"From  Newman  Noggs,"  said  Nicholas,  casting  his  eye 
upon  the  cramped  direction;  "it's  no  easy  matter  to  make 
his  writing  out.     Let  me  see — let  me  see." 

By  dint  of  poring  over  the  letter  for  half  an  hour,  he  con- 
trived to  make  himself  master  of  the  contents,  which  were 
certainly  not  of  a  nature  to  set  his  mind  at  ease.  Newman 
took  upon  himself  to  send  back  the  ten  pounds,  observing 
that  he  had  ascertained  that  neither  Mrs.  Nickleby  nor  Kate 
was  in  actual  want  of  money  at  the  moment,  and  that  a  time 
might  shortly  come  when  Nicholas  might  want  it  more.  He 
entreated  him  not  to  be  alarmed  at  what  he  was  about  to 
say; — there  was  no  bad  news — they  were  in  good  health — 
but  he  thought  circumstances  might  occur,  or  were  occur- 
ring, which  would  render  it  absolutely  necessary  that  Kate 
should  have  her  brother's  protection,  and  if  so,  Newman 
said,  he  would  write  to  him  to  that  effect,  either  by  the  next 
post  or  the  next  but  one. 

Nicholas  read  this  passage  very  often  and  the  more  he 
thought  of  it  the  more  he  began  to  fear  some  treachery  upon 
the  part  of  Ralph.  Once  or  twice  he  felt  tempted  to  repair 
to  London  at  all  hazards  without  an  hour's  delay,  but  a  little 
reflection  assured  him  that  if  such  a  step  were  necessary, 
Newman  would  have  spoken  out  and  told  him  so  at  once. 

"At  all  events  I  should  prepare  them  here  for  the  pos- 
sibility of  my  going  away  suddenly,"  said  Nicholas;  "I 
should  lose  no  time  in  doing  that."  As  the  thought  occurred 
to  him,  he  took  up  his  hat  and  hurried  to  the  green-room. 

"Well,  Mr.  Johnson,"  said  Mrs.  Crummies,  who  was 
seated  there  in  full  regal  costume,  with  the  phenomenon  as 
the  Maiden  in  her  maternal  arms,  "next  week  for  Ryde, 
then  for  Winchester,  then  for " 

"I  have  some  reason  to  fear,"  interrupted  Nicholas,  "that 
before  you  leave  here  my  career  with  you  will  have  closed." 

"Closed!"  cried  Mrs.  Crummies,  raising  her  hands  in 
astonishment. 


196     Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

"Closed!"  cried  Miss  Snevellicci,  trembling  so  much  in 
her  tights  that  she  actually  laid  her  hand  upon  the  shoulder 
of  the  manageress  for  support. 

"Why,  he  don't  mean  to  say  he's  going!"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Grudden,  making  her  way  towards  Mrs.  Crummies. 
"Hoity  toity!     Nonsense." 

The  phenomenon,  being  of  an  affectionate  nature  and 
moreover  excitable,  raised  a  loud  cry,  and  Miss  Belvawney 
and  Miss  Bravassa  actually  shed  tears.  Even  the  male  per- 
formers stopped  in  their  conversation,  and  echoed  the  word 
"Going!"  although  some  among  them  (and  they  had  been 
the  loudest  in  their  congratulations  that  day)  winked  at 
each  other  as  though  they  would  not  be  sorry  to  lose  such  a 
favoured  rival;  an  opinion,  indeed,  which  the  honest  Mr. 
Folair,  who  was  ready  dressed  for  the  savage,  openly  stated 
in  so  many  words  to  a  demon  with  whom  he  was  sharing 
a  pot  of  porter. 

Nicholas  briefly  said  that  he  feared  it  would  be  so,  al- 
though he  could  not  yet  speak  with  any  degree  of  certainty ; 
and  getting  away  as  soon  as  he  could,  went  home  to  con 
Newman's  letter  once  more,  and  speculate  upon  it  afresh. 

How  trifling  all  that  had  been  occupying  his  time  and 
thoughts  for  many  weeks  seemed  to  him  during  that  sleep- 
less night,  and  how  constantly  and  incessantly  present  to 
his  imagination  was  the  one  idea  that  Kate  in  the  midst  of 
some  great  trouble  and  distress  might  even  then  be  looking 
— and  vainly  too — for  him! 

4. — FESTIVITIES  ARE  HELD  IN  HONOUR  OF  NICHOLAS,  WHO 
SUDDENLY  WITHDRAWS  HIMSELF  FROM  THE  SOCIETY 
OF  MR.  VINCENT  CRUMMLES  AND  HIS  THEATRICAL 
COMPANIONS 

Mr.  Vincent  Crummies  was  no  sooner  acquainted  with 
the  public  announcement  which  Nicholas  had  made  relative 


The  Vincent  Crummies  Company  197 

to  the  probability  of  his  shortly  ceasing  to  be  a  member  of 
the  company,  than  he  evinced  many  tokens  of  grief  and 
consternation;  and,  in  the  extremity  of  his  despair,  even  held 
out  certain  vague  promises  of  a  speedy  improvement  not 
only  in  the  amount  of  his  regular  salary,  but  also  in  the  con- 
tingent emoluments  appertaining  to  his  authorship.  Find- 
ing Nicholas  bent  upon  quitting  the  society  (for  he  had  now 
determined  that,  even  if  no  further  tidings  came  from  New- 
man, he  would,  at  all  hazards,  ease  his  mind  by  repairing 
to  London  and  ascertaining  the  exact  position  of  his  sister) 
Mr.  Crummies  was  fain  to  content  himself  by  calculating 
the  chances  of  his  coming  back  again,  and  taking  prompt 
and  energetic  measures  to  make  the  most  of  him  before  he 
went  awav. 

"Let  me  see,"  said  Mr.  Crummies,  taking  off  his  outlaw's 
wig,  the  better  to  arrive  at  a  cool-headed  view  of  the  whole 
case.  "Let  me  see.  This  is  Wednesday  night.  We'll 
have  posters  out  the  first  thing  in  the  morning,  announcing 
positively  your  last  appearance  for  to-morrow." 

"But  perhaps  it  may  not  be  my  last  appearance,  you 
know,"  said  Nicholas.  "Unless  I  am  summoned  away,  I 
should  be  sorry  to  inconvenience  you  by  leaving  before  the 
end  of  the  week." 

"So  much  the  better,"  returned  Mr.  Crummies.  "We 
can  have  positively  your  last  appearance,  on  Thursday — 
re-engagement  for  one  night  more,  on  Friday — and,  yielding 
to  the  wishes  of  numerous  influential  patrons,  w^ho  were 
disappointed  in  obtaining  seats,  on  Saturday.  That  ought 
to  bring  three  very  decent  houses." 

"Then  I  am  to  make  three  last  appearances,  am  I?" 
inquired  Nicholas,  smiling. 

"Yes,"  rejoined  the  manager,  scratching  his  head  with  an 
air  of  some  vexation;  "three  is  not  enough,  and  it's  very 
bungling  and  irregular  not  to  have  more,  but  if  we  can't 
help  it  we  can't,  so  there's  no  use  in  talking.     A  novelty 


198     Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

would  be  very  desirable.  You  couldn't  sing  a  comic  song  on 
the  pony's  back,  could  you?" 

"No,"  replied  Nicholas,  "I  couldn't  indeed." 

"It  has  drawn  money  before  now,"  said  Mr.  Crummies 
with  a  look  of  disappointment.  "What  do  you  think  of  a 
brilliant  display  of  fireworks?" 

"That  it  would  be  rather  expensive,"  replied  Nicholas, 
drily. 

"  Eighteenpence  would  do  it,"  said  Mr.  Crummies.  "  You 
on  the  top  of  a  pair  of  steps  with  the  phenomenon  in  an 
attitude;  'Farewell'  on  a  transparency  behind;  and  nine 
people  at  the  wings  with  a  squib  in  each  hand — all  the  dozen 
and  a  half  going  off  at  once — it  would  be  very  grand — awful 
from  the  front,  quite  awful." 

As  Nicholas  appeared  by  no  means  impressed  with  the 
solemnity  of  the  proposed  effect,  but,  on  the  contrary, 
received  the  proposition  in  a  most  irreverent  manner,  and 
laughed  at  it  very  heartily,  Mr.  Crummies  abandoned  the 
project  in  its  birth,  and  gloomily  observed  that  they  must 
make  up  the  best  bill  they  could  with  combats  and  hornpipes, 
and  so  stick  to  the  legitimate  drama. 

For  the  purpose  of  carrying  this  object  into  instant  execu- 
tion, the  manager  at  once  repaired  to  a  small  dressing-room, 
adjacent,  where  Mrs.  Crummies  was  then  occupied  in  ex- 
changing the  habiliments  of  a  melodramatic  empress  for  the 
ordinary  attire  of  matrons  in  the  nineteenth  century.  And 
with  the  assistance  of  this  lady,  and  the  accomphshed 
Mrs.  Grudden  (who  had  quite  a  genius  for  making  out  bills, 
being  a  great  hand  at  throwing  in  the  notes  of  admiration, 
and  knowing  from  long  experience  exactly  where  the  largest 
capitals  ought  to  go),  he  seriously  applied  himself  to  the 
composition  of  the  poster. 

"Heigho!"  sighed  Nicholas,  as  he  threw  himself  back  in 
the  prompter's  chair,  after  telegraphing  the  needful  direc- 
tions to  Smike,  who  had  been  playing  a  meagre  tailor  in  the 


The  Vincent  Crummies  Company  199 

interlude,  with  one  skirt  to  his  coat,  and  a  httle  pocket 
handkerchief  with  a  large  hole  in  it,  and  woollen  night 
cap,  and  a  red  nose,  and  other  distinctive  marks  pecul- 
iar to  tailors  on  the  stage.  "Heigho!  I  wish  all  this  were 
over." 

"Over,  Mr.  Johnson!"  repeated  a  female  voice  behind 
him,  in  a  kind  of  plaintive  surprise. 

"It  was  an  ungallant  speech,  certainly,"  said  Nicholas, 
looking  up  to  see  who  the  speaker  was,  and  recognising  Miss 
Snevellicci.  "  I  would  not  have  made  it  if  I  had  known  you 
had  been  within  hearing." 

"What  a  dear  that  Mr.  Digby  is!"  said  Miss  Snevellicci, 
as  the  tailor  went  off  on  the  opposite  side,  at  the  end  of  the 
piece,  with  great  applause.  (Smike's  theatrical  name  was 
Digby.) 

"I'll  tell  him  presently,  for  his  gratification,  that  you  said 
so,"  returned  Nicholas. 

"Oh  you  naughty  thing!"  rejoined  Miss  Snevellicci.  "I 
don't  know  though,  that  I  should  much  mind  his  knowing 
my  opinion  of  him;  with  some  other  people,  indeed,  it 

might  be "     Here  Miss  Snevellicci  stopped,  as  though 

waiting  to  be  questioned,  but  no  questioning  came,  for 
Nicholas  was  thinking  about  more  serious  matters. 

"How  kind  it  is  of  you,"  resumed  Miss  Snevellicci,  after  a 
short  silence,  "to  sit  waiting  here  for  him  night  after  night, 
night  after  night,  no  matter  how  tired  you  are;  and  taking 
so  much  pains  with  him,  and  doing  it  all  with  as  much  de- 
light and  readiness  as  if  you  were  coining  gold  by  it!" 

"He  well  deserves  all  the  kindness  I  can  show  him,  and  a 
great  deal  more,"  said  Nicholas.  "He  is  the  most  grateful, 
single-hearted,  affectionate  creature,  that  ever  breathed." 

"So  odd,  too,"  remarked  Miss  Snevellicci,  "isn't  he?" 

"God  help  him,  and  those  who  have  made  him  so;  he  is 
indeed,"  rejoined  Nicholas,  shaking  his  head. 

"He  is  such  a  devilish  close  chap,"  said  Mr.  Folair,  who 


200     Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

had  come  up  a  little  before,  and  now  joined  in  the  conversa- 
tion.    "Nobody  can  ever  get  anything  out  of  him." 

"What  should  they  get  out  of  him?"  asked  Nicholas, 
turning  round  with  some  abruptness. 

"Zooks!  what  a  fire-eater  you  are,  Johnson!"  returned 
Mr.  Folair,  pulling  up  the  heel  of  his  dancing  shoe.  "I'm 
only  talking  of  the  natural  curiosity  of  the  people  here,  to 
know  what  he  has  been  about  all  his  life." 

"Poor  fellow!  it  is  pretty  plain,  I  should  think,  that  he 
has  not  the  intellect  to  have  been  about  anything  of  much 
importance  to  them  or  anybody  else,"  said  Nicholas. 

"Ay,"  rejoined  the  actor,  contemplating  the  effect  of  his 
face  in  a  lamp  reflector,  "but  that  involves  the  whole 
question,  you  know." 

"What  question?"  asked  Nicholas. 

"Why,  the  who  he  is  and  what  he  is,  and  how  you  two, 
who  are  so  different,  came  to  be  such  close  companions," 
replied  Mr.  Folair,  delighted  with  the  opportunity  of  saying 
something  disagreeable.     "That's  in  everybody's  mouth." 

"The  'everybody'  of  the  theatre,  I  suppose?"  said 
Nicholas,  contemptuously. 

"In  it  and  out  of  it  too,"  replied  the  actor.  "Why,  you 
know,  Lenville  says " 

"I  thought  I  had  silenced  him  effectually,"  interrupted 
Nicholas,  reddening. 

"Perhaps  you  have,"  rejoined  the  immovable  Mr.  Folair; 
"if  you  have,  he  said  this  before  he  was  silenced:  Lenville 
says  that  you're  a  regular  stick  of  an  actor,  and  that  it's 
only  the  mystery  about  you  that  has  caused  you  to  go  down 
with  the  people  here,  and  that  Crummies  keeps  it  up  for  his 
own  sake;  though  Lenville  says  he  don't  believe  there's  any- 
thing at  all  in  it,  except  your  having  got  into  a  scrape  and 
run  away  from  somewhere,  for  doing  something  or  other." 

"Oh!"  said  Nicholas,  forcing  a  smile. 

"That's  a  part  of  what  he  says,"  added  Mr.  Folair.     "I 


The  Vincent  Crummies  Company  201 

mention  it  as  the  friend  of  both  parties,  and  in  strict  con- 
fidence. /  don't  agree  with  him,  you  know.  He  says  he 
takes  Digby  to  be  more  knave  than  fool;  and  old  Fluggers, 
who  does  the  heavy  business  you  know,  he  says  that  when  he 
delivered  messages  at  Covent  Garden  the  season  before 
last,  there  used  to  be  a  pickpocket  hovering  about  the 
coach-stand  who  had  exactly  the  face  of  Digby;  though 
as  he  very  properly  says,  Digby  may  not  be  the  same,  but 
only  his  brother,  or  some  near  relation." 

"Oh!"  cried  Nicholas  again. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Folair,  with  undisturbed  calmness, 
"that's  what  they  say.  I  thought  I'd  tell  you,  because 
really  you  ought  to  know.  Oh !  here's  this  blessed  phenom- 
enon at  last.  Ugh,  you  little  imposition,  I  should  like  to 
— quite  ready,  my  darling, — humbug — Ring  up,  Mrs.  G., 
and  let  the  favourite  wake  'em!" 

Uttering  in  a  loud  voice  such  of  the  latter  allusions  as 
were  complimentary  to  the  unconscious  phenomenon,  and 
giving  the  rest  in  a  confidential  "aside"  to  Nicholas,  Mr. 
Folair  followed  the  ascent  of  the  curtain  with  his  eyes,  re- 
garded with  a  sneer  the  reception  of  Miss  Crummies  as  the 
Maiden,  and,  falling  back  a  step  or  two  to  advance  with  the 
better  effect,  uttered  a  preliminary  howl,  and  "went  on" 
chattering  his  teeth  and  brandishing  his  tin  tomahawk  as 
the  Indian  Savage. 

"So  these  are  some  of  the  stories  they  invent  about  us, 
and  bandy  from  mouth  to  mouth!"  thought  Nicholas.  "If 
a  man  would  commit  an  inexpiable  offence  against  any 
society,  large  or  small,  let  him  be  successful.  They  will 
forgive  him  any  crime  but  that." 

"You  surely  don't  mind  what  that  malicious  creature 
says,  Mr.  Johnson?"  observed  Miss  Snevellicci  in  her  most 
winning  tones. 

"Not  I,"  replied  Nicholas,  "If  I  were  going  to  remain 
here,  I  might  think  it  worth  my  while  to  embroil  myself. 


202      Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

As  it  is,  let  them  talk  till  they  are  hoarse.  But  here," 
added  Nicholas,  as  Smike  approached,  "here  comes  the 
subject  of  a  portion  of  their  good-nature,  so  let  he  and  I  say 
good  night  together." 

"  No,  I  will  not  let  either  of  you  say  anything  of  the  kind," 
returned  Miss  Snevellicci.  "You  must  come  home  and  see 
mama,  who  only  came  to  Portsmouth  to-day,  and  is  dying 
to  behold  you.     Led,  my  dear,  persuade  Mr.  Johnson." 

"Oh,  I'm  sure,"  returned  Miss  Ledrook,  with  consider- 
able vivacity,  "if  you  can't  persuade  him — "  Miss  Ledrook 
said  no  more,  but  intimated,  by  a  dexterous  playfulness, 
that  if  Miss  Snevellicci  couldn't  persuade  him,  nobody 
could. 

"Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lilly vick  have  taken  lodgings  in  our 
house,  and  share  our  sitting-room  for  the  present,"  said 
Miss  Snevellicci.     "Won't  that  induce  you?" 

"Surely,"  returned  Nicholas,  "I  can  require  no  possible 
inducement  beyond  your  invitation." 

"Oh  no!  I  dare  say,"  rejoined  Miss  Snevellicci.  And 
Miss  Ledrook  said,  "Upon  my  word!"  Upon  which  Miss 
Snevellicci  said  that  Miss  Ledrook  was  a  giddy  thing; 
and  Miss  Ledrook  said  that  Miss  Snevellicci  needn't  colour 
up  quite  so  much;  and  Miss  Snevellicci  beat  Miss  Ledrook, 
and  Miss  Ledrook  beat  Miss  Snevellicci. 

"Come,"  said  Miss  Ledrook,  "it's  high  time  we  were 
there,  or  we  shall  have  poor  Mrs.  Snevelhcci  thinking  that 
you  have  run  away  with  her  daughter,  Mr.  Johnson;  and 
then  we  should  have  a  pretty  to-do." 

"My  dear  Led,"  remonstrated  Miss  Snevellicci,  "how  you 
do  talk!" 

Miss  Ledrook  made  no  answer,  but  taking  Smike's  arm 
in  hers,  left  her  friend  and  Nicholas  to  follow  at  their 
pleasure ;  which  it  pleased  them,  or  rather  pleased  Nicholas, 
who  had  no  great  fancy  for  a  tete-a-tete  under  the  circum- 
stances, to  do  at  once. 


The  Vincent  Crummies  Company  203 

There  were  not  wanting  matters  of  conversation  when  they 
reached  the  street,  for  it  turned  out  that  Miss  SneveUicci 
had  a  small  basket  to  carry  home,  and  Miss  Ledrook  a  small 
bandbox,  both  containing  such  minor  articles  of  theatrical 
costume  as  the  lady  performers  usually  carried  to  and  fro 
every  evening.  Nicholas  would  insist  upon  carrying  the 
basket,  and  Miss  SneveUicci  would  insist  upon  carrying  it 
herself,  which  gave  rise  to  a  struggle ,  in  which  Nicholas 
captured  the  basket  and  the  bandbox  likewise.  Then 
Nicholas  said,  that  he  wondered  what  could  possibly  be 
inside  the  basket,  and  attempted  to  peep  in,  whereat  Miss 
SneveUicci  screamed,  and  declared  that  if  she  thought  he 
had  seen,  she  was  sure  she  should  faint  away.  This  declara- 
tion was  followed  by  a  similar  attempt  on  the  bandbox, 
and  similar  demonstrations  on  the  part  of  Miss  Ledrook, 
and  then  both  ladies  vowed  that  they  wouldn't  move  a  step 
further  until  Nicholas  had  promised  that  he  wouldn't  offer 
to  peep  again.  At  last  Nicholas  pledged  himself  to  betray 
no  further  curiosity,  and  they  walked  on:  both  ladies  gig- 
gling very  much,  and  declaring  that  they  never  had  seen 
such  a  wicked  creature  in  all  their  born  days — never. 

Lightening  the  way  with  such  pleasantry  as  this,  they 
arrived  at  the  tailor's  house  in  no  time;  and  here  they  made 
quite  a  little  party,  there  being  present  besides  Mr.  Lilly- 
vick  and  Mrs.  Lillyvick,  not  only  Miss  Snevellicci's  mama, 
but  her  papa  also.  And  an  uncommonly  fine  man  Miss 
Snevellicci's  papa  was,  with  a  hook  nose,  and  white  fore- 
head, and  curly  black  hair,  and  high  cheek  bones,  and  alto- 
gether quite  a  handsome  face,  only  a  little  pimply  as  though 
with  drinking.  He  had  a  very  broad  chest  had  Miss  Snevel- 
licci's papa,  and  he  wore  a  threadbare  blue  dress  coat 
buttoned  with  gilt  buttons  tight  across  it;  and  he  no  sooner 
saw  Nicholas  come  into  the  room,  than  he  whipped  the  two 
forefingers  of  his  right  hand  in  between  the  two  centre 
buttons,  and  sticking  his  other  arm  gracefully  a-kimbo. 


204     Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

seemed  to  say,  "Now,  here  I  am,  my  buck,  and  what  have 
you  got  to  say  to  me?" 

Such  was,  and  in  such  an  attitude  sat.  Miss  SnevelHcci's 
papa,  who  had  been  in  the  profession  ever  since  he  had  first 
played  the  ten-year-old  imps  in  the  Christmas  pantomimes; 
who  could  sing  a  little,  dance  a  little,  fence  a  little,  act  a 
fittle,  and  do  everything  a  little,  but  not  much;  who  had 
been  sometimes  in  the  ballet,  and  sometimes  in  the  chorus, 
at  every  theatre  in  London;  who  was  always  selected  in 
virtue  of  his  figure  to  play  the  military  visitors  and  the 
speechless  noblemen;  who  always  wore  a  smart  dress,  and 
came  on  arm-in-arm  with  a  smart  lady  in  short  petticoats, — 
and  always  did  it  too  with  such  an  air  that  people  in  the  pit 
had  been  several  times  known  to  cry  out  "Bravo!"  under 
the  impression  that  he  was  somebody.  Such  was  Miss 
SnevelHcci's  papa,  upon  whom  some  envious  persons  cast 
the  imputation  that  he  occasionally  beat  Miss  SnevelHcci's 
mama,  who  was  still  a  dancer,  with  a  neat  little  figure  and 
some  remains  of  good  looks,  and  who  now  sat,  as  she  danced, 
— being  rather  too  old  for  the  full  glare  of  the  footlights, — 
in  the  background. 

To  these  good  people  Nicholas  was  presented  with  much 
formality.  The  introduction  being  completed.  Miss  Snevel- 
Hcci's papa  (who  was  scented  with  rum  and  water)  said  that 
he  was  delighted  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  a  gentleman 
so  highly  talented;  and  furthermore  remarked,  that  there 
hadn't  been  such  a  hit  made — no,  not  since  the  first  appear- 
ance of  his  friend  Mr.  Glavormelly,  at  the  Coburg. 

"You  have  seen  him,  sir?"  said  Miss  SnevelHcci's  papa. 

"No,  really  I  never  did,"  replied  Nicholas. 

"You  never  saw  my  friend  Glavormelly,  sir!"  said  Miss 
SneveHicci's  papa.  "Then  you  have  never  seen  acting  yet. 
If  he  had  lived " 

"Oh,  he  is  dead,  is  he?"  interrupted  Nicholas, 

"He  is,"  said  Mr.  SneveHicci,  "but  he  isn't  in  West- 


The  Vincent  Crummies  Company  205 

minster  Abbey,  more's  the  shame.     He  was  a .     Well, 

no  matter.  He  is  gone  to  that  bourne  from  whence  no 
traveller  returns.     I  hope  he  is  appreciated  there." 

So  saying.  Miss  Snevellicci's  papa  rubbed  the  tip  of  his 
nose  with  a  very  yellow  silk  handkerchief,  and  gave  the 
company  to  understand  that  these  recollections  overcame 
him. 

•'Well  Mr.  Lilly vick,"  said  Nicholas,  "and  how  are 
you?" 

"Quite  well,  sir,"  replied  the  collector.  "There  is 
nothing  like  the  married  state,  sir,  depend  upon  it." 

"Indeed?"  said  Nicholas,  laughing. 

"Nothing  like  it,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Lilly  vick  solemnly. 
"How  do  you  think?"  whispered  the  collector,  drawing 
him  aside,  "How  do  you  think  she  looks  to-night?" 

"As  handsome  as  ever,"  replied  Nicholas,  glancing  at 
the  late  Miss  Petowker. 

"Why,  there's  a  air  about  her,  sir,"  whispered  the  col- 
lector, "that  I  never  saw  in  anybody.  Look  at  her,  now 
she  moves  to  put  the  kettle  on.  There!  Isn't  it  fascination, 
sir.'' 

"You're  a  lucky  man,"  said  Nicholas. 

"Ha,  ha,  ha!"  rejoined  the  collector.  "No.  Do  you 
think  I  am  though,  eh?  Perhaps  I  may  be,  perhaps  I  may 
be.  I  say,  I  couldn't  have  done  much  better  if  I  had  been 
a  young  man,  could  I?  You  couldn't  have  done  much  bet- 
ter yourself,  could  you — eh — could  you?"  With  such 
inquiries,  and  many  more  such,  Mr.  Lillyvick  jerked  his 
elbow  into  Nicholas's  side,  and  chuckled  till  his  face  became 
quite  purple  in  the  attempt  to  keep  down  his  satisfaction. 

Next  day  the  posters  appeared  in  due  course,  and  the 
public  were  informed,  in  all  the  colours  of  the  rainbow,  and 
in  letters  afflicted  with  every  possible  variation  of  spinal 
deformity,  how  that  Mr.  Johnson  would  have  the  honour  of 
making  his  last  appearance  that  evening,  and  how  that  an 


2o6     Mr.  Dicke  ns  Goes  to  the  Play 

early  application  for  places  was  requested,  in  consequence  of 
the  extraordinary  overflow  attendant  on  his  performances. 
It  being  a  remarkable  fact  in  theatrical  history,  but  one  long 
since  established  beyond  dispute,  that  it  is  a  hopeless  en- 
deavour to  attract  people  to  a  theatre  unless  they  can  be 
first  brought  to  believe  that  they  will  never  get  into  it. 

Nicholas  was  somewhat  at  a  loss,  on  entering  the  theatre 
at  night,  to  account  for  the  unusual  perturbation  and  excite- 
ment visible  in  the  countenances  of  all  the  company,  but  he 
was  not  long  in  doubt  as  to  the  cause,  for  before  he  could 
make  any  inquiry  respecting  it  Mr.  Crummies  approached, 
and  in  an  agitated  tone  of  voice,  informed  him  that  there 
was  a  London  manager  in  the  boxes. 

"It's  the  phenomenon,  depend  upon  it,  sir,"  said 
Crummies,  dragging  Nicholas  to  the  little  hole  in  the  cur- 
tain that  he  might  look  through  at  the  London  manager. 
"I  have  not  the  smallest  doubt  it's  the  fame  of  the  phe- 
nomenon— that's  the  man:  him  in  the  great-coat  and  no 
shirt-collar.  She  shall  have  ten  pound  a-week,  Johnson; 
she  shall  not  appear  on  the  London  boards  for  a  farthing 
less.  They  shan't  engage  her  either,  unless  they  engage 
Mrs.  Crummies  too — twenty  pound  a-week  for  the  pair;  or 
I'll  tell  you  what,  I'll  throw  in  myself  and  the  two  boys,  and 
they  shall  have  the  family  for  thirty.  I  can't  say  fairer 
than  that.  They  must  take  us  all,  if  none  of  us  will  go 
without  the  others.  That's  the  way  some  of  the  London 
people  do,  and  it  always  answers.  Thirty  pound  a-week. 
It's  too  cheap,  Johnson.     It's  dirt  cheap." 

Nicholas  replied,  that  it  certainly  was;  and  Mr.  Vincent 
Crummies  taking  several  huge  pinches  of  snuff  to  compose 
his  feelings,  hurried  away  to  tell  Mrs.  Crummies  that  he  had 
quite  settled  the  only  terms  that  could  be  accepted,  and  had 
resolved  not  to  abate  one  single  farthing. 

When  everybody  was  dressed  and  the  curtain  went  up, 
the  excitement  occasioned  by  the  presence  of  the  London 


The  Vincent  Crummies  Company  207 

manager  increased  a  thousand-fold.  E.verybody  happened 
to  know  that  the  London  manager  had  come  down  specially 
to  witness  his  or  her  own  performance,  and  all  were  in  a  flut- 
ter of  anxiety  and  expectation.  Some  of  those  who  were 
not  on  in  the  first  scene,  hurried  to  the  wings,  and  there 
stretched  their  necks  to  have  a  peep  at  him;  others  stole  up 
into  the  two  little  private  boxes  over  the  stage-doors,  and 
from  that  position  reconnoitred  the  London  manager.  Once 
the  London  manager  was  seen  to  smile.  He  smiled  at  the 
comic  countryman's  pretending  to  catch  a  blue-bottle,  while 
Mrs.  Crummies  was  making  her  greatest  effect.  "Very 
good,  my  fine  fellow,"  said  Mr.  Crummies,  shaking  his  fist 
at  the  comic  countryman  when  he  came  off,  "you  leave  this 
company  next  Saturday  night." 

In  the  same  way,  everybody  who  was  on  the  stage  beheld 
no  audience  but  one  individual;  everybody  played  to  the 
London  manager.  When  Mr.  Lenville  in  a  sudden  burst  of 
passion  called  the  emperor  a  miscreant,  and  then  biting  his 
glove,  said,  "But  I  must  dissemble,"  instead  of  looking 
gloomily  at  the  boards  and  so  waiting  for  his  cue,  as  is 
proper  in  such  cases,  he  kept  his  eye  fixed  upon  the  London 
manager.  When  Miss  Bravassa  sang  her  song  at  her  lover, 
who  according  to  custom  stood  ready  to  shake  hands  with 
her  between  the  verses,  they  looked,  not  at  each  other  but 
at  the  London  manager.  Mr.  Crummies  died  point  blank 
at  him;  and  when  the  two  guards  came  in  to  take  the  body 
off  after  a  very  hard  death,  it  was  seen  to  open  its  eyes  and 
glance  at  the  London  manager.  At  length  the  London 
manager  was  discovered  to  be  asleep,  and  shortly  after  that 
he  woke  up  and  went  away,  whereupon  all  the  company  fell 
foul  of  the  unhappy  comic  countryman,  declaring  that  his 
buffoonery  was  the  sole  cause;  and  Mr.  Crummies  said,  that 
he  had  put  up  with  it  a  long  time,  but  that  he  really  couldn't 
stand  it  any  longer,  and  therefore  would  feel  obliged  by  his 
looking  out  for  another  engagement. 


208     Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

All  this  was  the  occasion  of  much  amusement  to  Nicholas, 
whose  only  feeling  upon  the  subject  was  one  of  sincere 
satisfaction  that  the  great  man  went  away  before  he 
appeared.  He  went  through  his  part  in  the  two  last  pieces 
as  briskly  as  he  could,  and  having  been  received  with 
unbounded  favour  and  unprecedented  applause — so  said 
the  bills  for  next  day,  which  had  been  printed  an  hour  or 
two  before — he  took  Smike's  arm  and  walked  home  to  bed. 

With  the  post  next  morning  came  a  letter  from  Newman 
Noggs,  very  inky,  very  short,  very  dirty,  very  small,  and 
very  mysterious,  urging  Nicholas  to  return  to  London 
instantly;  not  to  lose  an  instant;  to  be  there  at  night  if 
possible. 

"I  will,"  said  Nicholas,  "Heaven  knows  I  have  re- 
mained here  for  the  best,  and  sorely  against  my  own  will; 
but  even  now  I  may  have  dallied  too  long.  What  can  have 
happened?  Smike,  my  good  fellow,  here — take  my  purse. 
Put  our  things  together,  and  pay  what  little  debts  we  owe — 
quick,  and  we  shall  be  in  time  for  the  morning  coach.  I  will 
only  tell  them  that  we  are  going,  and  will  return  to  you 
immediately." 

So  saying,  he  took  his  hat,  and  hurrying  away  to  the 
lodgings  of  Mr.  Crummies,  applied  his  hand  to  the  knocker 
with  such  hearty  good-will,  that  he  awakened  that  gentle- 
man, who  was  still  in  bed,  and  caused  Mr.  Bulph  the  pilot 
to  take  his  morning's  pipe  very  nearly  out  of  his  mouth  in 
the  extremity  of  his  surprise. 

The  door  being  opened,  Nicholas  ran  upstairs  without 
any  ceremony,  and  bursting  into  the  darkened  sitting- 
room  on  the  one-pair  front,  found  that  the  two  Master 
Crummleses  had  sprung  out  of  the  sofa-bedstead  and  were 
putting  on  their  clothes  with  great  rapidity,  under  the  im- 
pression that  it  was  the  middle  of  the  night,  and  the  next 
house  was  on  fire. 

Before  he  could  undeceive  them  Mr.  Crummies  came 


The  Vincent  Crummies  Company  209 

down  in  a  flannel-gown  and  night-cap;  and  to  him  Nicholas 
briefly  explained  that  circumstances  had  occurred  which 
rendered  it  necessary  for  him  to  repair  to  London  im- 
mediately. 

"So  good  bye,"  said  Nicholas;  "good  bye,  good  bye." 

He  was  half-way  downstairs  before  Mr.  Crummies  had 
sufficiently  recovered  his  surprise  to  gasp  out  something 
about  the  posters. 

"  I  can't  help  it,"  replied  Nicholas,  "  Set  whatever  I  may 
have  earned  this  week  against  them,  or  if  that  will  not  repay 
you,  say  at  once  what  will.     Quick,  quick." 

"  We'll  cry  quits  about  that,"  returned  Crummies.  "  But 
can't  we  have  one  last  night  more?" 

"Not  an  hour — not  a  minute,"  replied  Nicholas,  im- 
patiently. 

"Won't  you  stop  to  say  something  to  Mrs.  Crummies.'^" 
asked  the  manager,  following  him  down  to  the  door. 

"I  couldn't  stop  if  it  were  to  prolong  my  life  a  score  of 
years,"  rejoined  Nicholas.  "Here,  take  my  hand,  and 
with  it  my  hearty  thanks. — Oh!  that  I  should  have  been 
fooling  here!" 

Accompanying  these  words  with  an  impatient  stamp  on 
the  ground,  he  tore  himself  from  the  manager's  detaining 
grasp,  and  darting  rapidly  down  the  street  was  out  of  sight 
in  an  instant. 

"Dear  me,  dear  me,"  said  Mr.  Crummies,  looking  wist- 
fully towards  the  point  at  which  he  had  just  disappeared; 
"if  he  only  acted  like  that,  what  a  deal  of  money  he'd  draw! 
He  should  have  kept  upon  this  circuit;  he'd  have  been  very 
useful  to  me.  But  he  don't  know  what's  good  for  him.  He 
is  an  impetuous  youth.     Young  men  are  rash,  very  rash." 

Mr.  Crummies  being  in  a  moralising  mood,  might  possibly 
have  moralised  for  some  minutes  longer  if  he  had  not 
mechanically  put  his  hand  towards  his  waistcoat  pocket, 
where  he  was  accustomed  to  keep  his  snufiF.     The  absence 

Z4 


210     Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

of  any  pocket  at  all  in  the  usual  direction,  suddenly  recalled 
to  his  recollection  the  fact  that  he  had  no  waistcoat  on;  and 
this  leading  him  to  a  contemplation  of  the  extreme  scanti- 
ness of  his  attire,  he  shut  the  door  abruptly,  and  retired 
upstairs  with  great  precipitation. 

Smike  had  made  good  speed  while  Nicholas  was  absent, 
and  with  his  help  everything  was  soon  ready  for  their  de- 
parture. They  scarcely  stopped  to  take  a  morsel  of  break- 
fast, and  in  less  than  half  an  hour  arrived  at  the  coach-office : 
quite  out  of  breath  with  the  haste  they  had  made  to  reach 
it  in  time.  There  were  yet  a  few  minutes  to  spare,  so,  hav- 
ing secured  the  places,  Nicholas  hurried  into  a  slopseller's 
hard  by,  and  bought  Smike  a  great-coat.  It  would  have 
been  rather  large  for  a  substantial  yeoman,  but  the  shopman 
averring  (and  with  considerable  truth)  that  it  was  a  most 
uncommon  fit,  Nicholas  would  have  purchased  it  in  his 
impatience  if  it  had  been  twice  the  size. 

As  they  hurried  up  to  the  coach,  which  was  now  in  the 
open  street  and  all  ready  for  starting,  Nicholas  was  not 
a  little  astonished  to  find  himself  suddenly  clutched  in  a 
close  and  violent  embrace,  which  nearly  took  him  oiff  his 
legs;  nor  was  his  amazement  at  all  lessened  by  hearing  the 
voice  of  Mr.  Crummies  exclaim,  "It  is  he — my  friend,  my 
friend!" 

"Bless  my  heart,"  cried  Nicholas,  struggling  in  the 
manager's  arms,  "what  are  you  about.-^" 

The  manager  made  no  reply,  but  strained  him  to  his 
breast  again,  exclaiming  as  he  did  so,  "Farewell,  my  noble, 
my  lion-hearted  boy!" 

In  fact,  Mr.  Crummies,  who  could  never  lose  any  oppor- 
tunity for  professional  display,  had  turned  out  for  the 
express  purpose  of  taking  a  public  farewell  of  Nicholas;  and 
to  render  it  the  more  imposing,  he  was  now,  to  that  young 
gentleman's  most  profound  annoyance,  inflicting  upon  him 
a  rapid  succession  of  stage  embraces,  which,  as  everybody 


The  Vincent  Crummies  Company  211 

knows,  are  performed  by  the  embracer's  laying  his  or  her 
chin  on  the  shoulder  of  the  object  of  affection,  and  looking 
over  it.  This  Mr.  Crummies  did  in  the  highest  style  of 
melodrama,  pouring  forth  at  the  same  time  all  the  most 
dismal  forms  of  farewell  he  could  think  of,  out  of  the  stock 
pieces.  Nor  was  this  all,  for  the  elder  Master  Crummies 
was  going  through  a  similar  ceremony  with  Smike;  while 
Master  Percy  Crummies,  with  a  very  little  second-hand 
camlet-cloak,  worn  theatrically  over  his  left  shoulder,  stood 
by,  in  the  attitude  of  an  attendant  officer,  waiting  to  convey 
the  two  victims  to  the  scaffold. 

The  lookers-on  laughed  very  heartily,  and  as  it  was  as 
well  to  put  a  good  face  upon  the  matter,  Nicholas  laughed 
too  when  he  had  succeeded  in  disengaging  himself;  and 
rescuing  the  astonished  Smike,  climbed  up  to  the  coach 
roof  after  him,  and  kissed  his  hand  in  honour  of  the  absent 
Mrs.  Crummies  as  they  rolled  away. 

5 LONG   AFTERWARDS 

Long  afterwards  Nicholas  found  himself  poring  with  the 
utmost  interest  over  a  large  play-bill  hanging  outside  a 
Minor  Theatre  which  he  had  to  pass  on  his  way  home,  and 
reading  a  list  of  the  actors  and  actresses  who  had  promised 
to  do  honour  to  some  approaching  benefit,  with  as  much 
gravity  as  if  it  had  been  a  catalogue  of  the  names  of  those 
ladies  and  gentlemen  who  stood  highest  upon  the  Book  of 
Fate,  and  he  had  been  looking  anxiously  for  his  own.  He 
glanced  at  the  top  of  the  bill,  with  a  smile  at  his  own  dull- 
ness, as  he  prepared  to  resume  his  walk,  and  there  saw  an- 
nounced, in  large  letters,  with  a  large  space  between  each 
of  them,  "Positively  the  last  appearance  of  Mr.  Vincent 
Crummies  of  Provincial  Celebrity!!!" 

"Nonsense!"  said  Nicholas,  turning  back  again.  "It 
can't  be." 


212      Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

But  there  it  was.  In  one  line  by  itself  was  an  announce- 
ment of  the  first  night  of  a  new  melodrama;  in  another  line 
by  itself  was  an  announcement  of  the  last  six  nights  of  an 
old  one;  a  third  line  was  devoted  to  the  re-engagement  of 
the  unrivalled  African  Knife-swallower,  who  had  kindly 
suffered  himself  to  be  prevailed  upon  to  forego  his  country 
engagements  for  one  week  longer;  a  fourth  line  announced 
that  Mr.  Snittle  Timberry,  having  recovered  from  his  last 
severe  indisposition,  would  have  the  honour  of  appearing 
that  evening;  a  fifth  line  said  that  there  were  "Cheers, 
Tears,  and  Laughter!"  every  night;  a  sixth,  that  that  was 
positively  the  last  appearance  of  Mr.  Vincent  Crummies  of 
Provincial  Celebrity. 

"Surely  it  must  be  the  same  man,"  thought  Nicholas. 
"There  can't  be  two  Vincent  Crummleses." 

The  better  to  settle  this  question  he  referred  to  the  bill 
again,  and  finding  that  there  was  a  Baron  in  the  first  piece, 
and  that  Roberto  (his  son)  was  enacted  by  one  Master 
Crummies,  and  Spaletro  (his  nephew)  by  one  Master  Percy 
Crummies — their  last  appearances — and  that,  incidental  to 
that  piece,  was  a  characteristic  dance  by  the  characters,  and 
a  Castanet  pas  seul  by  the  Infant  Phenomenon — her  last 
appearance — he  no  longer  entertained  any  doubt;  and  pre- 
senting himself  at  the  stage  door,  and  sending  in  a  scrap  of 
paper  with  "Mr.  Johnson"  written  thereon  in  pencil,  was 
presently  conducted  by  a  Robber  with  a  very  large  belt  and 
buckle  round  his  waist,  and  very  large  leather  gauntlets  on 
his  hands,  into  the  presence  of  his  former  manager. 

Mr.  Crummies  was  unfeignedly  glad  to  see  him,  and 
starting  up  from  before  a  small  dressing-glass,  with  one 
very  bushy  eyebrow  stuck  on  crooked  over  his  left  eye,  and 
the  fellow  eyebrow  and  the  calf  of  one  of  his  legs  in  his  hand, 
embraced  him  cordially;  at  the  same  time  observing,  that  it 
would  do  Mrs.  Crummles's  heart  good  to  bid  him  good-bye 
before  they  went. 


The  Vincent  Crummies  Company  213 

"You  were  always  a  favourite  of  hers,  Johnson,"  said 
Crummies,  "always  were  from  the  first.  I  was  quite  easy 
in  my  mind  about  you  from  that  first  day  you  dined  with 
us.  One  that  Mrs.  Crummies  took  a  fancy  to  was  sure  to 
turn  out  right.     Ah!  Johnson,  what  a  woman  that  is!" 

"I  am  sincerely  obliged  to  her  for  her  kindness  in  this  and 
all  other  respects,"  said  Nicholas.  "But  where  are  you 
going,  that  you  talk  about  bidding  good-bye.?" 

"Haven't  you  seen  it  in  the  papers?"  said  Crummies, 
with  some  dignity. 

"No,"  replied  Nicholas. 

"I  wonder  at  that,"  said  the  manager.  "It  was  among 
the  varieties.  I  had  the  paragraph  here  somewhere — but  I 
don't  know — oh,  yes,  here  it  is." 

So  saying,  Mr.  Crummies,  after  pretending  that  he 
thought  he  must  have  lost  it,  produced  a  square  inch  of 
newspaper  from  the  pocket  of  the  pantaloons  he  wore  in 
private  life  (which,  together  with  the  plain  clothes  of  several 
other  gentlemen,  lay  scattered  about  on  a  kind  of  dresser  in 
the  room),  and  gave  it  to  Nicholas  to  read: 

"The  talented  Vincent  Crummies,  long  favourably 
known  to  fame  as  a  country  manager  and  actor  of  no  ordi- 
nary pretensions,  is  about  to  cross  the  Atlantic  on  an 
histrionic  expedition.  Crummies  is  to  be  accompanied,  we 
hear,  by  his  lady  and  gifted  family.  We  know  no  man 
superior  to  Crummies  in  his  particular  line  of  character,  or 
one  who,  whether  as  a  public  or  private  individual,  could 
carry  with  him  the  best  wishes  of  a  larger  circle  of  friends. 
Crummies  is  certain  to  succeed." 

"Here's  another  bit,"  said  Mr.  Crummies,  handing  over  a 
still  smaller  scrap.  "This  is  from  the  notices  to  correspon- 
dents, this  one." 

Nicholas  read  it  aloud.  "  *  Philo-Dramaticus.  Crummies, 
the  country  manager  and  actor,  cannot  be  more  than  forty- 
three,  or  forty-four  years  of  age.     Crummies  is  not  a  Prus- 


214      Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

sian,  having  been  born  at  Chelsea.'  Humph!"  said 
Nicholas,  "that's  an  odd  paragraph." 

"Very,"  returned  Crummies,  scratching  the  side  of  his 
nose,  and  looking  at  Nicholas  with  an  assumption  of  great 
unconcern.  "I  can't  think  who  puts  these  things  in.  I 
didn't." 

Still  keeping  his  eye  on  Nicholas,  Mr.  Crummies  shook 
his  head  twice  or  thrice  with  profound  gravity,  and  remark- 
ing, that  he  could  not  for  the  life  of  him  imagine  how  the 
newspapers  found  out  the  things  they  did,  folded  up  the 
extracts  and  put  them  in  his  pocket  again. 

"I  am  astonished  to  hear  this  news,"  said  Nicholas. 
"  Going  to  America !  You  had  no  such  thing  in  contempla- 
tion when  I  was  with  you." 

"No,"  rephed  Crummies,  "I  hadn't  then.  The  fact  is, 
that  Mrs.  Crummies — most  extraordinary  woman,  Johnson." 
Here  he  broke  off  and  whispered  something  in  his  ear. 

"Oh!"  said  Nicholas,  smiling.  "The  prospect  of  an 
addition  to  your  family?" 

"The  seventh  addition,  Johnson,"  returned  Mr. 
Crummies,  solemnly.  "I  thought  such  a  child  as  the 
Phenomenon  must  have  been  a  closer;  but  it  seems  we  are 
to  have  another.     She  is  a  very  remarkable  woman." 

"I  congratulate  you,"  said  Nicholas,  "and  I  hope  this 
may  prove  a  phenomenon  too." 

"Why,  it's  pretty  sure  to  be  something  uncommon,  I 
suppose,"  rejoined  Mr.  Crummies.  "The  talent  of  the 
other  three  is  principally  in  combat  and  serious  pantomime. 
I  should  like  this  one  to  have  a  turn  for  juvenile  tragedy;  I 
understand  they  want  something  of  that  sort  in  America 
very  much.  However,  we  must  take  it  as  it  comes.  Per- 
haps it  may  have  a  genius  for  the  tight-rope.  It  may  have 
any  sort  of  genius,  in  short,  if  it  takes  after  its  mother, 
Johnson,  for  she  is  a  universal  genius;  but,  whatever  its 
genius  is,  that  genius  shall  be  developed." 


The  Vincent  Crummies  Company  215 

Expressing  himself  after  these  terms,  Mr.  Crummies  put 
on  his  other  eyebrow,  and  the  calves  of  his  legs,  and  then 
put  on  his  legs,  which  were  of  a  yellowish  flesh-colour,  and 
rather  soiled  about  the  knees,  from  frequent  going  down 
upon  those  joints,  in  curses,  prayers,  last  struggles,  and 
other  strong  passages. 

While  the  ex-manager  completed  his  toilet,  he  informed 
Nicholas  that  as  he  should  have  a  fair  start  in  America, 
from  the  proceeds  of  a  tolerably  good  engagement  which  he 
had  been  fortunate  enough  to  obtain,  and  as  he  and  Mrs 
Crummies  could  scarcely  hope  to  act  for  ever  (not  being 
immortal,  except  in  the  breath  of  Fame  and  in  a  figurative 
sense),  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  settle  there  permanently, 
in  the  hope  of  acquiring  some  land  of  his  own  which  would 
support  them  in  their  old  age,  and  which  they  could  after- 
wards bequeath  to  their  children.  Nicholas,  having  highly 
commended  this  resolution,  Mr.  Crummies  went  on  to  im- 
part such  further  intelligence  relative  to  their  mutual 
friends  as  he  thought  might  prove  interesting;  informing 
Nicholas,  among  other  things,  that  Miss  Snevellicci  was 
happily  married  to  an  affluent  young  wax-chandler  who  had 
supplied  the  theatre  with  candles,  and  that  Mr.  Lillyvick 
didn't  dare  to  say  his  soul  was  his  own,  such  was  the  tyran- 
nical sway  of  Mrs.  Lillyvick,  who  reigned  paramount  and 
supreme. 

Nicholas  responded  to  this  confidence  on  the  part  of  Mr. 
Crummies,  by  confiding  to  him  his  own  name,  situation, 
and  prospects,  and  informing  him  in  as  few  general  words  as 
he  could,  of  the  circumstances  which  had  led  to  their  first 
acquaintance.  After  congratulating  him  with  great  hearti- 
ness on  the  improved  state  of  his  fortunes,  Mr.  Crummies 
gave  him  to  understand  that  next  morning  he  and  his  were 
to  start  for  Liverpool,  where  the  vessel  lay  which  was  to 
carry  them  from  the  shores  of  England,  and  that  if  Nicholas 
wished  to  take  a  last  adieu  of  Mrs.  Crummies,  he  must 


2i6     Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

repair  with  him  that  night  to  a  farewell-supper,  given  in 
honour  of  the  family  at  a  neighbouring  tavern;  at  which 
Mr.  Snittle  Timberry  would  preside  while  the  honours  of 
the  vice-chair  would  be  sustained  by  the  African  Swallower. 

The  room  being  by  this  time  very  warm  and  somewhat 
crowded,  in  consequence  of  the  influx  of  four  gentlemen  who 
had  just  killed  each  other  in  the  piece  under  representation, 
Nicholas  accepted  the  invitation,  and  promised  to  return  at 
the  conclusion  of  the  performances;  preferring  the  cool  air 
and  twilight  out  of  doors  to  the  mingled  perfume  of  gas, 
orange-peel,  and  gunpowder,  which  pervaded  the  hot  and 
glaring  theatre. 

He  availed  himself  of  this  interval  to  buy  a  silver  snuff- 
box— the  best  his  funds  would  afford — as  a  token  of  remem- 
brance for  Mr.  Crummies,  and  having  purchased  besides  a 
pair  of  earrings  for  Mrs.  Crummies,  a  necklace  for  the 
Phenomenon,  and  a  flaming  shirt-pin  for  each  of  the  young 
gentlemen,  he  refreshed  himself  with  a  walk,  and  returning 
a  little  after  the  appointed  time,  found  the  lights  out,  the 
theatre  empty,  the  curtain  raised  for  the  night,  and  Mr. 
Crummies  walking  up  and  down  the  stage  expecting  his 
arrival. 

"Timberry  won't  be  long,"  said  Mr.  Crummies.  "He 
played  the  audience  out  to-night.  He  does  a  faithful  black 
in  the  last  piece,  and  it  takes  him  a  little  longer  to  wash 
himself." 

"A  very  unpleasant  line  of  character,  I  should  think?" 
said  Nicholas. 

"No,  I  don't  know,"  replied  Mr.  Crummies;  "it  comes  off 
easily  enough,  and  there's  only  the  face  and  neck.  We  had 
a  first-tragedy  man  in  our  company  once,  who,  when  he 
played  Othello,  used  to  black  himself  all  over.  But  that's 
feeling  a  part  and  going  into  it  as  if  you  meant  it;  it  isn't 
usual;  more's  the  pity." 

Mr.  Snittle  Timberry  now  appeared,  arm  in  arm  with  the 


The  Vincent  Crummies  Company  217 

African  Swallower,  and,  being  introduced  to  Nicholas,  raised 
his  hat  half-a-foot,  and  said  he  was  proud  to  know  him. 
The  Swallower  said  the  same,  and  looked  and  spoke  remark- 
ably like  an  Irishman. 

"I  see  by  the  bills  that  you  have  been  ill,  sir,"  said 
Nicholas  to  Mr.  Timberry .  "  I  hope  you  are  none  the  worse 
for  your  exertions  to-night?" 

Mr.  Timberry,  in  reply,  shook  his  head  with  a  gloomy  air, 
tapped  his  chest  several  times  with  great  significancy,  and 
drawing  his  cloak  more  closely  about  him,  said,  "But  no 
matter,  no  matter.     Come!" 

It  is  observable  that  when  people  upon  the  stage  are  in 
any  strait  involving  the  very  last  extremity  of  weakness  and 
exhaustion,  they  invariably  perform  feats  of  strength  re- 
quiring great  ingenuity  and  muscular  power.  Thus,  a 
wounded  prince  or  bandit-chief,  who  is  bleeding  to  death 
and  too  faint  to  move,  except  to  the  softest  music  (and  then 
only  upon  his  hands  and  knees),  shall  be  seen  to  approach  a 
cottage  door  for  aid,  in  such  a  series  of  writhings  and  twist- 
ings,  and  with  such  curlings  up  of  the  legs,  and  such  rollings 
over  and  over,  and  such  gettings  up  and  tumblings  down 
again,  as  could  never  be  achieved  save  by  a  very  strong  man 
skilled  in  posture-making.  And  so  natural  did  this  sort  of 
performance  come  to  Mr.  Snittle  Timberry,  that  on  their 
way  out  of  the  theatre  and  towards  the  tavern  where  the 
supper  was  to  be  holden,  he  testified  the  severity  of  his  re- 
cent indisposition  and  its  wasting  effects  upon  the  nervous 
system,  by  a  series  of  gymnastic  performances  which  were 
the  admiration  of  all  witnesses. 

"Why,  this  is  indeed  a  joy  I  had  not  looked  for!"  said 
Mrs,  Crummies,  when  Nicholas  was  presented. 

"Nor  I,"  replied  Nicholas.  "It  is  by  a  mere  chance  that 
I  have  this  opportunity  of  seeing  you,  although  I  would 
have  made  a  great  exertion  to  have  availed  myself  of  it." 

"Here  is  one  whom  you  know,"  said  Mrs.  Crummies, 


2i8      Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

thrusting  forward  the  Phenomenon  in  a  blue  gauze  frock, 
extensively  flounced,  and  trousers  of  the  same;  "and  here 
another — and  another,"  presenting  the  Masters  Crummies. 
"And  how  is  your  friend,  the  faithful  Digby?" 

"Digby!"  said  Nicholas,  forgetting  at  the  instant  that 
this  had  been  Smike's  theatrical  name.  "Oh,  yes.  He's 
quite — what  am  I  saying? — he  is  very  far  from  well." 

"How!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Crummies,  with  a  tragic  recoil. 

"I  fear,"  said  Nicholas,  shaking  his  head,  and  making  an 
attempt  to  smile,  "that  your  better-half  would  be  more 
struck  with  him  now,  than  ever." 

"What  mean  you?"  rejoined  Mrs.  Crummies,  in  her  most 
popular  manner.     "Whence  comes  this  altered  tone?" 

"I  mean  that  a  dastardly  enemy  of  mine  has  struck  at 
me  through  him,  and  that  while  he  thinks  to  torture  me,  he 

inflicts  on  him  such  agonies  of  terror  and  suspense  as 

You  will  excuse  me,  I  am  sure,"  said  Nicholas,  checking 
himself.  "I  should  never  speak  of  this,  and  never  do, 
except  to  those  who  know  the  facts,  but  for  a  moment  I 
forgot  myself." 

With  this  hasty  apology  Nicholas  stooped  down  to  salute 
the  Phenomenon,  and  changed  the  subject ;  inwardly  cursing 
his  precipitation,  and  very  much  wondering  what  Mrs. 
Crummies  must  think  of  so  sudden  an  explosion. 

The  lady  seemed  to  think  very  little  about  it,  for  the 
supper  being  by  this  time  on  table,  she  gave  her  hand  to 
Nicholas  and  repaired  with  a  stately  step  to  the  left  hand  of 
Mr.  Snittle  Timberry.  Nicholas  had  the  honour  to  support 
her,  and  Mr.  Crummies  was  placed  upon  the  chairman's 
right;  the  Phenomenon  and  the  Masters  Crummies  sustained 
the  vice. 

The  company  amounted  in  number  to  some  twenty-five 
or  thirty,  being  composed  of  such  members  of  the  theatrical 
profession,  then  engaged  or  disengaged  in  London,  as  were 
numbered  among  the  most  intimate  friends  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 


The  Vincent  Crummies  Company  219 

Crummies.  The  ladies  and  gentlemen  were  pretty  equally 
balanced;  the  expenses  of  the  entertainment  being  defrayed 
by  the  latter,  each  of  whom  had  the  privilege  of  inviting  one 
of  the  former  as  his  guest. 


The  Dramatizations  of  Dickens 


221 


THE  DRAMATIZATIONS  OF 
DICKENS 

DE  CAUSE  of  his  great  throng  of  tempting  charac- 
ters and  because  scene  after  scene  in  his  tales  is 
a-tingle  with  the  electricity  of  the  dramatic,  the  novels 
of  Dickens  have  ever  been  prey  to  the  ready  playwright. 

Just  as  no  player  worth  his  salt  can  follow  Fagin  or 
Jingle  or  Sydney  Carton  through  the  pages  of  the  books 
without  itching  to  embody  them  on  the  stage,  so  no 
dramatist  can  read  such  scenes  as  the  interrupted 
Christmas  dinner  at  Joe  Gargery's  or  the  tantalizing 
dialogue  between  Eugene  Wrayburn  and  Bradley 
Headstone  without  feeling  a  strong  impulse  to  put  them 
immediately  into  play  form. 

Comedies  and  melodramas  and  operettas  have  been 
fashioned  more  or  less  faithfully  from  the  Dickens 
stories  for  the  theatre  of  every  country  under  the  sun 
and  I  have  seen  in  one  place  or  another  a  record  of  a 
dramatization  of  every  tale  he  ever  told,  save  only 
"Hunted  Down." 

John  O'Toole  as  the  Artful  Dodger,  Irving  as  Sikes 

223 


224     Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

and  as  Jingle,  Jennie  Lee  as  Joe,  Tree  as  Fagin  and  as 
John  Jasper,  Janauschek  as  Lady  Dedlock,  Lotta  as  the 
Marchioness,  Jefferson  as  Newman  Noggs,  W.  J.  Flor- 
ence as  Cuttle — these  were  famous  performances. 

Playgoers  in  America  since  1900  might  have  seen  the 
stage  version  of  "A  Tale  of  Two  Cities"  which  was  called 
"The  Only  Way"  and  which  enlisted  the  services  of 
Henry  Miller  as  Carton;  Louis  N.  Parker's  arrange- 
ment of  Copperfield,  which  he  called  "The  Highway  of 
Life"  and  which  had  a  brief  and  painful  career  at 
Wallack's  (the  late  Sir  Herbert  Tree  played  this  in 
London,  doubling  energetically  as  Peggotty  and  Mi- 
cawber);  a  production  in  the  grand  manner  of  "Oliver 
Twist,"  with  Nat  Goodwin  as  Fagin,  Constance  Collier 
as  Nancy,  Lyn  Harding  as  Bill,  and  Marie  Doro,  very 
plaintive  and  feminine,  as  Oliver;  Joseph  Jefferson  as 
Caleb  Plummer  in  a  dramatization  of  "The  Cricket  on 
the  Hearth,"  which  served  him  for  many  seasons;  Lulu 
Glaser  as  Dolly  in  "Dolly  Varden,"  a  pretty  comic 
opera  made  out  of  patches  of  "Barnaby  Rudge,"  and, 
in  a  musical  show,  none  other  than  De  Wolf  Hopper  try- 
ing vainly  to  disguise  his  height  and  aspect  behind  the 
spectacles  and  gaiters  of  Mr.  Pickwick. 

These,  at  least,  I  myself  came  across  without  looking 
for  them.  Quite  the  contrary.  Of  an  attempt  to 
search  the  records  for  a  complete  list  of  all  the  Dick- 
ens plays,  I  am  innocent.  S.  J.  Adair  Fitzgerald  in  his 
book  on  Dickens  and  the  stage  has  done  that  somewhat 


MADAME  CEJLES'TEAwMABAMnKUIBPRAGE. 

PUiiiAtci  i  JoLdby  A.PARK   .  i^y  Leonard  I'^  .TaberiLacU  WaLk. 


A  Dramatization  of  "A  Tale  of  Two  Cities,"  at  the  Lyceum  Theatre, 

London,  i860 

(From  the  Shaw  Collection) 


The  Dramatizations  of  Dickens    225 

ungrateful  task  quite  sufficiently  for  all  i,ime.  Such  a 
search  does,  to  be  sure,  take  on  the  nature  of  a  game  of 
hide-and-seek,  so  completely  do  some  of  the  dramatiza- 
tions lurk  behind  the  new  titles  which  the  adaptors,  for 
one  reason  or  another,  would  be  pretty  sure  to  give 
them. 

Most  of  us  would  recognize  "Bleak  House"  in  "Move 
On:  or  the  Crossing  Sweeper"  and  in  "Jo,  the  Waif: 
or  the  Mystery  of  Chesney  Wood."  But  would  we  be 
quite  so  sure  of  "Chesney  Wold,"  in  which  Janauschek 
doubled  with  great  gusto  as  Lady  Dedlock  and  Hor- 
tense?  Most  of  us  would  recognize  "  The  Golden  Dust- 
man," but  how  many  would  suspect  "Hard  Times"  of 
having  inspired  "Under  the  Earth:  or  Sons  of  Toil".'^ 
The  game  grows  more  difficult  when  you  go  abroad  and 
must  retain  an  unfamiliar  association  through  transla- 
tion into  another  tongue.  Of  course  it  took  no  great 
penetration  to  detect  the  origins  of  the  play  called 
"Klein  Dorrit,"  which  was  running  in  Berlin  in  1906, 
but  I  vow  I  went  to  "Le  Grillon  du  Foyer"  at  the  Odeon 
during  the  war,  knowing  quite  well  what  "grillon" 
meant  and  what  "foyer,"  and  yet  without  suspecting, 
until  the  first-act  was  half  unfolded,  that  I  was  seeing 
my  old  friend  Caleb  Plummer  again,  Caleb  listening 
fondly  to  a  cricket  that  was  played  in  the  fireplace  by 
an  oboe,  with  its  song  written  especially  for  the  purpose 
by  Massenet.  Most  of  us  would  recognize  "Little 
Em'ly"  or  "Lost  Em'ly,"  but  who  would  look  for 


226      Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

Peggotty  in  a  play  called  "The  Deal  Boatman"?  And 
who  is  a  good  enough  Dickensian  to  detect  at  once  the 
novel  dramatized  in  "Born  with  a  Caul"? 

Really,  the  explanation  of  all  the  Dickens  plays  lies  in 
the  implications  of  that  title.  You  trace  it,  of  course,  to 
that  second  page  in  the  first  chapter  of  "David  Copper- 
field"  where  the  story  runs  as  follows: 

I  was  born  with  a  caul,  which  was  advertised  for  sale,  in 
the  newspapers,  at  the  low  price  of  fifteen  guineas.  Whether 
sea-going  people  were  short  of  money  about  that  time,  or 
were  short  of  faith  and  preferred  cork  jackets,  I  don't 
know;  all  I  know  is,  that  there  was  but  one  solitary  bidding, 
and  that  was  from  an  attorney  connected  with  the  bill- 
broking  business,  who  offered  two  pounds  in  cash,  and  the 
balance  in  sherry,  but  declined  to  be  guaranteed  from 
drowning  on  any  higher  bargain.  Consequently  the  adver- 
tisement was  withdrawn  as  a  dead  loss — for  as  to  sherry, 
my  poor  dear  mother's  own  sherry  was  in  the  market  then — 
and  ten  years  afterwards  the  caul  was  put  up  in  a  raffle 
down  in  our  part  of  the  country,  to  fifty  members  at  half-a- 
crown  a  head,  the  winner  to  spend  five  shillings.  I  was 
present  myself,  and  I  remember  to  have  felt  quite  uncom- 
fortable and  confused,  at  a  part  of  myself  being  disposed 
of  in  that  way.  The  caul  was  won,  I  recollect,  by  an  old 
lady  with  a  hand-basket,  who,  very  reluctantly,  produced 
from  it  the  stipulated  five  shillings,  all  in  halfpence,  and 
twopence  halfpenny  short — as  it  took  an  immense  time  and 
a  great  waste  of  arithmetic,  to  endeavour  without  any 
effect  to  prove  to  her.  It  is  a  fact  which  will  be  long  remem- 
bered as  remarkable  down  there,  that  she  was  never 
drowned,  but  died  triumphantly  in  bed,  at  ninety-two.  I 
have  understood  that  it  was,  to  the  last,  her  proudest  boast 
that  she  never  had  been  on  the  water  in  her  life,  except 


The  Dramatizations  of  Dickens    22-] 

upon  a  bridge;  and  that  over  her  tea  (to  which  she  was  ex- 
tremely partial)  she,  to  the  last,  expressed  her  indignation 
at  the  impiety  of  mariners  and  others,  who  had  the  pre- 
sumption to  go  "meandering"  about  the  world.  It  was  in 
vain  to  represent  to  her  that  some  conveniences,  tea  perhaps 
included,  resulted  from  this  objectionable  practice.  She 
always  returned,  with  greater  emphasis  and  with  an  instinc- 
tive knowledge  of  the  strength  of  her  objection :  "Let  us 
have  no  meandering." 

Of  the  quality  and  abundance  of  Dickens's  genius 
there  is,  in  all  the  books,  no  better  exhibit  than  that  one 
paragraph,  not  merely  because  the  deathless  character 
which  it  presents  is  in  herself  a  delightful  acquaintance, 
but  because  his  capacity  to  create  such  characters  was 
so  limitless  that  he  could  afford  to  cast  her  off  casually. 
She  is  never  named.  She  enters  a  great  novel  on  its 
second  page,  makes  her  exit  on  the  same  page,  and  is 
never  heard  of  again.  And  it  is  that  capacity  which 
lends  the  greatest  regret  to  the  fact  that  Dickens  never 
did  try  hard  enough  to  shift  from  his  habitual  medium 
to  the  dramatic  form,  for  he  had  the  kind  of  gift  at 
creation  of  human  beings  which  is  inseparable  from  the 
dramatic  form  and  which  separates  the  great  play- 
wrights like  ^schylus  and  Shakespeare  and  Ibsen  from 
the  lesser  playwrights  of  each  renaissance  of  the  theatre. 

Dickens,  as  has  been  said,  did  try  his  hand  at  play- 
writing  and  even  thought,  at  times,  of  doing  his  own 
dramatizations.  He  had  a  finger,  though  not  the  con- 
trolling one,  in  the  "No  Thoroughfare"  play,  of  which 


228     Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

Wilkie  Collins  wrote  the  major  part  and  which  was  pre- 
sented by  Fechtef  at  the  Adelphi  in  London  while 
Dickens  was  in  America  on  his  second  visit.  The  play 
had  gone  off  the  boards  by  the  time  he  returned,  so 
that  he  had  to  go  to  Paris  to  see  it  under  the  title  of 
"L'Abime."  Long  before  that,  he  had  been  quite 
pathetically  eager  to  be  permitted  to  dramatize  his  own 
"Ohver  Twist."  Under  date  of  October,  1838,  he  was 
writing  confidently  to  Frederick  Yates,  the  actor- 
manager,  as  follows: 

Supposing  we  arrange  preliminaries  for  our  mutual  sat- 
isfaction I  propose  to  dramatize  "Oliver  Twist"  for  the  first 
night  of  next  season.  I  have  never  seen  Mrs.  Honner,  but 
from  the  mere  circumstance  of  her  being  a  Mrs.,  I  should 
say  at  once  that  she  was  "a  many  sizes  too  big"  for  Oliver 
Twist.  If  it  be  played  by  a  female  it  should  be  a  very  sharp 
girl  of  13  or  14,  or  the  character  would  be  an  absurdity. 
I  don't  see  any  possibility  of  any  other  house  doing  it  be- 
fore your  next  opening  night.  If  they  do,  it  must  be  done 
in  a  very  extraordinary  manner,  as  the  story,  unlike  that  of 
"Pickwick,"  is  an  involved  and  complicated  one.  I  am 
quite  certain  that  no  one  can  have  heard  what  I  am  going 
to  do  with  the  different  characters  in  the  end,  inasmuch  as, 
at  present,  I  don't  quite  know  myself.  So  we  are  tolerably 
safe  on  that  head.  I  am  quite  certain  that  your  name  as  the 
Jew  and  mine  as  the  author  would  knock  any  other  attempt 
quite  out  of  the  field. 

In  the  same  year,  a  notation  in  Macready's  Diary 
reads  as  follows : 

"Forster  and  Dickens  called  and  I  told  them  of  the 


The  Dramatizations  of  Dickens    229 

utter  impossibility  of  'Oliver  Twist'  for  any  dramatic 
purpose." 

The  memory  of  which  disappointment  was  probably 
burning  Dickens's  ears  that  night  a  little  later  when  he 
and  Forster  did  go  to  see  "Oliver  Twist"  at  the  Surrey- 
theatre,  a  dramatization  so  painful  to  the  father  of  that 
workhouse  child  that,  as  Forster  tells,  "in  the  middle 
of  the  first  scene  he  laid  him  down  upon  the  floor  in  a 
corner  of  the  box  and  never  rose  from  it  until  the  drop- 
scene  fell." 

Indeed,  he  witnessed  or  heard  of  all  such  stage  ver- 
sions with  mingled  emotions,  an  enormous  curiosity  as 
to  how  it  had  been  managed,  an  intense  anguish  when 
the  impersonations  departed  absurdly  from  the  por- 
traits he  had  painted,  and  a  genuine  and  undying  exas- 
peration because,  under  the  loose  laws  of  the  day,  he 
could  never  deflect  any  of  the  royalties  or  profits  into 
his  own  coffers.  Against  the  pirates  who  swarmed 
aboard  each  book  of  his  as  soon  as  it  had  appeared  (or 
even  while  it  was  in  the  process  of  appearing)  he  lay 
about  him  with  a  bludgeon  all  his  days  and  always 
without  the  slightest  effect  on  the  pirates  or  on  the 
laws  which  permitted  them  to  live  at  his  expense.  In 
the  middle  of  the  farewell  supper  to  Vincent  Crummies, 
he  could  not  resist  pausing  and  bidding  Nicholas,  of  all 
people,  get  up  and  speak  his  mind  on  this,  a  subject 
which  could  not,  by  the  widest  stretch  of  the  imagina- 
tion, be  supposed  to  interest  Nicholas. 


230     Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

This  blast,  seemingly,  was  aimed  at  a  pot-boiling 
playwright  named  William  MoncriefF,  whose  three-act 
adaptation  called  "Sam  Weller;  or,  the  Pickwickians" 
was  running  in  the  Strand  with  a  final  scene  showing 
Sam  and  Mr.  Pickwick  at  the  Coronation  of  Victoria. 
It  was  accompanied  by  a  complacent  "Advertisement" 
in  which  Moncrieff  said : 

Some  injudicious  friends  of  Mr.  Dickens,  among  his  breth- 
ren of  the  Press  (preserve  me  from  such  friends  say  I — of 
course  I  do  not  allude  to  the  manly,  fair-dealing,  daily 
Press,  to  which  I  am  under  the  greatest  obligations)  have 
chosen  to  display  much  soreness  at  the  complete  manner  in 
which  I  have  triumphed  over  all  the  difficulties  I  had  to 
encounter  in  my  undertaking.  Every  wretched  mongrel 
can,  I  am  aware,  dramatize  the  "Pickwick  Papers"  now  that 
I  have  shown  them  how,  by  closely  copying  all  I  have  done; 
as  is  the  case  with  a  low  minor  theatre,  in  the  purlieus  of 
London — once  respectable;  but  even  the  original  author 
will  admit  that  he  had  never  contemplated  his  matter  could 
have  been  so  compressed,  and  his  incidents  put  in  so  con- 
nected a  form,  as  they  assume  in  "Sam  Weller"! — a  char- 
acter, by  the  by,  which  I  should  think  was  only  an  after- 
conception  of  its  creator,  and  formed  no  part  of  his  original 
projection.  Mr.  Dickens  has,  by  far,  too  much  genius,  to 
nourish  any  of  the  petty  feelings  evinced  by  his  fostering 
friends!  whose  articles,  being  those  of  the  "high,  intellec- 
tual" Sunday-school  of  criticism,  are  greatly  too  genteel  and 
abstruse  for  every-day  reading,  but  must  be  kept  for  Lord's- 
day  examination  only !  Why  these  gentry  should  object  to 
my  having  dramatised  Mr.  Dickens,  I  cannot  conceive.  Sir 
Walter  Scott,  a  name,  I  humbly  submit,  of  sufficient  merit 
to  be  mentioned  in  the  same  page  with  the  writer  of  the 
"Pickwick  Club,"  always  looked  upon  Mr.  Pocock's  and 


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The  Dramatizations  of  Dickens    231 

Mr.  Terry's  stage  versions  of  those  immortal  fictions,  "Rob 
Roy"and"Ivanhoe,"rather  as  a  compliment  than  otherwise; 
and  I  had  undoubted  precedent  for  what  I  did  in  the  in- 
stance of  the  first  dramatic  wTiter  of  all  time — Shakespeare! 
who  has  scarcely  a  play  that  is  not  founded  on  some  previous 
drama,  history,  chronicle,  popular  tale,  or  story.  What  then 
means  the  twaddle  of  these  "high  intellectuals"  in  so  pathet- 
ically condoling  with  Mr.  Dickens,  on  the  penalties  he  pays 
for  his  popularity  in  being  put  on  the  stage?  Let  these 
"high  intellectuals"  speak  to  Mr.  Dickens's  publishers,  and 
they  will  learn  it  has  rendered  them,  by  increasing  their  sale, 
the  most  fortunate  of  Chapmen  and  dealers!  It  is  wasting 
time  to  show  the  absurdity  of  these  addle-pated  persons, 
for  their  "blow  hot  and  blow  cold"  articles  are  as  incompre- 
hensible to  themselves  as  they  are  to  everybody  else.  In 
one  of  them,  I  am,  first  of  all,  abused  for  having  sacrilegious- 
ly meddled  with  any  of  Mr.  Dickens's  matter;  and  then 
abused  for  not  having  meddled  with  it  enough.  The  reader 
is  told  that  everybody  is  pleased  with  my  piece;  and  is  then 
informed  that  nobody  should  be  pleased  with  it.  Two  or 
three  low  scenes  between  Sam  and  his  father,  taken  from 
the  original  work,  are  lauded  as  "written  in  a  fine  spirit  of 
humanity";  while  some  rather  polite  dialogues,  that  I  have 
introduced,  between  the  ladies,  are  blackguarded  by  this 
"high  intellectual"  as  vulgar. 

As  soon  as  the  number  of  "Nicholas"  containing 
the  Crummies  dinner  and  the  Dickens  explosion  was  on 
the  streets,  the  new^spapers  were  all  pointing  slyly  at 
Moncrieff  who  immediately  retorted  in  a  long  and  furi- 
ous proclamation,  in  which  he  issued  this  defi: 

Let  Mr.  Dickens — and  he  has  five  months  before  him — 
set  his  wits  to  work  again  and  finish  his"  Nicholas  Nickleby" 


232      Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

better  than  I  have  done,  and  I  shall  sink  into  the  primitive 
mire,  from  which  I  have,  for  the  moment,  attempted  to 
emerge  by  catching  at  the  hem  of  his  garment. 

And  then,  growing  angrier  and  angrier  because  Dick- 
ens had  quoted  one  of  his  agreements  to  write  seven 
melodramas  for  five  pounds,  Moncrieff  continued  to  put 
the  shoe  on  as  follows: 

Great  as  his  talents  are,  he  is  not  to  fancy  himself  "Sir 
Oracle,"  and  think  that  when  he  speaks  no  dog  should 
"bark";  he  should  not  attempt  to  "bestride  us  like  a 
Colossus,"  and  grumble  that  we  "poor  petty  mortals  should 
seek  to  creep  between  his  legs."  With  all  possible  good  feel- 
ing, I  would  beg  to  hint  to  Mr.  Dickens  that  the  depreciating 
the  talents  of  another  is  but  a  shallow  and  envious  way  of 
attempting  to  raise  one's  own — that  the  calling  the  offend- 
ing party  a  thief,  sneering  at  his  pecuniary  circumstances 
and  indulging  in  empty  boasts  of  tavern  treats  are  weapons 
of  offence  usually  resorted  to  only  by  the  very  lowest  orders. 
Nothing  is  more  easy  than  to  be  ill-natured.  I  confess  I 
write  for  my  living,  and  it  is  no  discredit  to  Mr.  Dickens  to 
say  that  those  who  know  him  best  are  aware  he  is  as  much 
indebted  to  his  pen  for  the  dinner  of  the  day  as  I  can  possibly 
be.  With  respect  to  the  "six  hundred  generations'''  through 
which  Mr.  Dickens  expects  his  "pedestal  should  remain  un- 
shaken in  the  Temple  of  Fame,"  I  can  assure  him  I  have 
never  anticipated  that  any  credit  I  might  derive  from 
dramatising  Nicholas  Nickleby  would  more  than  endure 
beyond  as  many  days.  Having  himself  unsuccessfully  tried 
the  Drama,  there  is  some  excuse  for  Mr.  Dickens's  petulance 
towards  its  professors;  but  it  is  somewhat  illiberal  and 
ungrateful  that,  being  indebted  to  the  stage  for  so  many 
of    his    best    characters  —  Sam     Weller,    from     Beazley's 


The  Dramatizations  of  Dickens    233 

"Boarding  House,"    for  example — he   should   deny   it   a 
few  in  return. 

All  of  which  hot  interchange  is  worth  going  over  now 
if  only  to  remind  ourselves  that  it  derives  its  grotesque 
one-sidedness  largely  from  our  present  perspective,  our 
knowledge  of  the  stature  of  Dickens  and  of  the  insig- 
nificance of  his  opponent.  Would  not  some  of  us,  at  the 
time,  have  watched  with  amusement  from  the  sidelines 
and,  as  like  as  not,  thought  that  Moncrieff  rather  had 
him  there  and  there  and  there  .'*  On  such  incapacity  to 
judge  men  and  matters  at  close  range,  the  Moncrieffs 
flourish,  and  their  heirs  even  unto  the  Dr.  Cooks  and  the 
Hohenzollerns  of  our  own  day. 

Thirty  years  later,  Dickens  was  still  suffering.  He 
had  gone  to  America  with  the  manuscript  of  the  "No 
Thoroughfare"  dramatization  tucked  under  his  arm 
and  the  incorrigible  hope  that  he  could  arrange  for  its 
production  here  before  the  local  pirates  bestirred  them- 
selves. But  exactly  ten  days  after  the  first  number  of 
"No  Thoroughfare"  as  a  story  had  reached  the  Port  of 
Boston,  behold  a  stage  version  unfolded,  with  mingled 
talents  for  theft  and  prophecy,  at  a  local  theatre,  of 
which  the  playbill,  visible  now  in  the  Shaw  Collection 
at  the  library  in  Harvard  College,  blandly  boasted  of 
the  enterprise  of  the  management  in  serving  its  public 
so  quickly.    Dickens  wrote  at  once  to  Collins: 

Pirates  are  producing  their  own  wretched  versions  in  all 
directions,   thus    (as   Wills   would   say)    anticipating   and 


234      Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

glutting  "the  market."  I  registered  our  play  as  the  prop- 
erty of  Ticknor  and  Fields,  American  citizens.  But,  be- 
sides that  the  law  on  the  point  is  extremely  doubtful,  the 
manager  of  the  Museum  Theatre,  Boston,  instantly  an- 
nounced his  version  (you  may  suppose  what  it  is  and  how 
it  is  done,  when  I  tell  you  that  it  was  playing  within  ten 
days  of  the  arrival  of  the  Christmas  number).  Thereupon 
Ticknor  and  Fields  gave  him  notice  that  he  mustn't  play  it. 
Of  course  he  knew  very  well  that  if  an  injunction  were  ap- 
plied for  against  him,  there  would  be  an  immediate  howl 
against  my  persecution  of  an  innocent,  and  he  played  it. 
Then  the  whole  host  of  pirates  rushed  in  and  it  is  being  done, 
in  some  mangled  form  or  other,  everywhere. 

And  later  he  wrote  to  Fechter:  "WTiy  should  they 
pay  for  the  piece  as  you  play  it,  when  all  they  want  is  my 
name,  and  they  can  get  that  for  nothing?" 

The  most  extreme  use  of  that  name  which  I  have 
found  is  in  another  playbill  at  Harvard  College  which 
contains  the  items  shown  opposite: 

But  probably  the  most  curious  freaks  in  the  whole 
museum  of  the  Dickensians  are  the  dramatization  of 
"Nicholas  Nickleby,"  reported  by  Thackeray  in  an 
article  in  Fraser's  Magazine  for  1842  and  another  of 
"David  Copperfield,"  described  by  B.  W.  Matz,  in  a 
playbill  sent  him  from  Winnipeg  in  1906, 

Thackeray  was  full  of  laughter  after  seeing  at  the 
Ambigu-Comique  in  Paris  a  Neekolass  Neeklbee,  un- 
folded at  a  school  called  "le  Paradis  des  Enfans"  in 
"le  Yorksheer."  It  will  be  noted  that  John  Browdie, 
described  as  a  "drover,"  gives  lessons  on  the  clarionet 


W.  15.1 


^ftiitburati  9l^rl|it)i  Cliratrr. 


IN.  89. 


*y  TacmMHttr—pMiiftinj  tainiiinfltfcatta»TwL»tin«fcM«tu>erwftBMtiiini  nf  im  miii»  n iii»j  m  imi_  j._t.^ 

^Thursday,  August  30,  and  Saturday,  September  1,  lOkQ. 

LAST  NICHT  BUT  TWO  OF  THE  PRESENT  SEASON ! ! 

4th  ]Vi^ht  of  the  Celebrated  Serenaders  from  St  James*  Theatre,  London, 

G.W.PELL,  IT.F.BRIG6S, 


The  Original '  Bones/  of  St  James*  Theatre. 


The  best  Banjo  Player  In  the  World,  and 


WHO  ARE  ENGAGED  FOR  POSITIVELY  SIX  MGHTS  OXLY. 


BOZTS  JOBA.  the  Hero  of  CharlM  XMckena' "  A.inertcan  Notes,"  and  the  only  Touth  of  Colour  ever  before 
the  FubUc.    He  la  thus  described  by  Charles  Dlckeas  in  his  "American  Notes  for  General  Circulation."— 

"  —  SuddenlT  the  Ihclv  liero  i1i«1ict  in  to  the  rescue.  Iiwtantlv  the  fi.liller  <»rin9  and  t'oes  nv  it  tixilh  «nil  nail :— There  1«  new  energy  m 
llic  Umhnurine — new  lBu;;htiT  in  the  danceri — new  bri{;bllineM  in  the  very  c.inrfles.  Sin:.'le  Shutfl^  ilouhle  shullle.  cut  and  lun*  cut ;  anap- 
fvin);  hitfinfrrra.  roHinc  hij  eyes  turning;  in  his  knees,  pmenlin^  the  backs  ot  his  lep  in  front,  !i|>ininng  abnit  on  hii  toes  anil  heels  like  no 
ihin/  hut  the  nian'a  finu-eri  on  the  tambourine :  daniing  with  two  left  lees,  l»o  ri:;ht  leifs.  two  wooden  ii-gs.  two  wire  V-'i*.  nv.i  iiprinf;  legf. 
all  torts  of  legs  ami  no  le),r,_Hhai  is  thi«  to  bim  »  AtH  in  what  walk  of  liti-.  or  d.imc  of  life,  does  inin  ever  gel  such  sliinnUtio;;  applauae  as 
Thunder*  about  bim,  when,  after  having  danced  hit  partner  otTher  li»e',»nd  hiniM-lftoo,  he  finisliciibv  calling  for  Miinething  to  driiik,  with  the 
rDtckle  Ufa  million  counterfeit  .lim  irons  in  one  inimitable  sound.  ' 

■•:v<>r>  l»Ad.v  NliniiKI  CO  nnd   «eo  U%vm.—  Tlm€>».     niMo.— T»»  ^nnaif*-r. 


At  the  end  of  the  F.r>t  .\ct  of  -The  School  for  Diplomacy.-    .M.>srs  I'l.l.l..  Jl   HA.  nn.I    liKlGUS  *M  ^mvc  the  IIK.-T 

I'.MlTr.f  dicir 


AMERICAN 

SONO,  (New.)  -         "  "Walk  along,  John," 

REFRAIN.  -  "  Poor  Old  Ned," 

SONG.  -  -  "  Negro's  Courtship." 

SOLO  &  CHORUS.  (New,)  "  Stop  Dat  Knocking,"    -  nw,  o    -w    T»Ek.T. 

SOLO.  -  -  (on  the  Bones,)  -  -  Mr  O.  W.  FKLL 

f^L^^       Festival  Ociri,ce''Original''BOZ'SJUBA. 
§3^    Plantation  JDance— Original" BOX'S  Jy^^;^ 


BOZ'S  JUBA. 

Mr  G.  Vr.  PKLL. 

Mr  T.  F.  BRIG08. 

JUBA  Si  Company. 
- ^l^j 


\ri<M'  4li<'  Olio.  lh«>  %«'«on<i  An  of  lln*  «oiimmI>. 


liUcy  Long,  In  Character,  (Original,)  Boz's  JUBA. 

Boz's  Juba  Showbill 


The  Dramatizations  of  Dickens    235 

at  the  school  and  that  the  play  becomes  unduly  con- 
cerned with  Smike  (pronounced  Smeek).  Smeek,  hav- 
ing been  discovered  to  be  the  heir  to  the  nearby  Claren- 
don estates,  is  hidden  in  the  Cadger's  Cavern  a  thou- 
sand feet  below  the  Thames,  is  rescued  by  Neekolass  and 
ultimately  becomes  Lord  Smeek. 

The  discovery  by  Matz  is  that  a  play  called  "What 
Women  W^ill  Do,"  by  one  Harry  Jackson,  contained  the 
following  cast  of  characters :  "  Wilkins  Micawber,  Daniel 
Peggotty,  Hiram  Peggotty,  Uriah  Heep,  James  Steer- 
forth,  David  Copperfield,  Sheriff  Dudley,  Em'ly,  Rosa 
Dartle,  Mrs.  Peggotty,  Mrs.  Micawber  and  Wilkins 
Micawber,  Jr."  And  the  program  further  reveals  that 
one  scene — a  touch  that  would  have  brightened  the  eye 
of  Crummies  himself — was  laid  in  "Em'ly's  Apartment 
in  Paris." 

These,  no  doubt,  were  the  worst  of  them.  But  surely 
in  the  best  of  them  there  was  something  lacking — a 
falling  short  that  would  have  made  not  Mr.  Dickens 
alone  but  all  of  us  want  to  lie  down  on  the  floor  in  the 
corner  of  the  box.  They  could  make  a  play  out  of  the 
unended  tale  of  "Edwin  Drood,"  and  indeed,  in  the  one 
they  did  make,  they  contrived  (rather  in  the  manner  of 
a  fellow  lifting  himself  by  his  own  bootstraps)  to  prove 
that  Edwin  was  not  murdered  after  all.  They  could 
make  a  dozen  plays  out  of  the  drama  that  is  in  that 
rushing,  sunlit  stream  of  life  which  he  called  "David 
Copperfield."    But  at  best  the  maker  of  such  drama- 


236      Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 

tizations  is  ever  a  little  too  much  like  one  who  comes 
beaming  from  the  shore  with  a  pailful  of  salt  water 
and  cries  out  in  the  streets:  "Behold  my  version  of  the 
Atlantic." 


SLEIGHT  OF  HAND 

Dickens,  who  was  no  mean  conjuror,  writes  his  own 
playbill. 

The  Unparalleled  Necromancer  Rhia  Rhama  Rhoos, 
educated  cabalistically  in  the  Orange  Groves  of  Salamanca 
and  the  Ocean  Caves  of  Alum  Bay. 

THE   LEAPING    CARD    WONDER 

Two  cards  being  drawn  from  the  pack  by  one  of  the 
company,  and  placed,  with  the  pack,  in  the  Necromancer's 
box,  will  leap  forth  at  the  command  of  any  lady  of  not  less 
than  eighty  years  of  age. 

i^*if.  This  wonder  is  the  result  of  nine  years'  seclusion  in  the 
mines  of  Russia. 

THE   PYRAMID    WONDER 

A  shilling  being  lent  to  the  Necromancer  by  any  gentle- 
man of  not  less  than  twelve  months,  or  more  than  one 
hundred  years,  of  age,  and  carefully  marked  by  the  said 
gentleman,  will  disappear  from  within  a  brazen  box,  at  the 
word  of  command,  and  pass  through  the  hearts  of  an  in- 
finity of  boxes,  which  will  afterwards  build  themselves  into 
pyramids  and  sink  into  a  small  mahogany  box,  at  the 
Necromancer's  bidding. 

237 


238      Mr.  Dickens  Goes  to  the  Play 


* 
*  * 


Five  thousand  guineas  were  paid  for  the  acquisition 
of  this  wonder,  to  a  Chinese  Mandarin,  who  died  of  grief 
immediately  after  parting  with  his  secret. 


THE   CONFLAGRATION    WONDER 

A  card  being  drawn  from  the  pack  by  any  lady,  not  under 
a  direct  and  positive  promise  of  marriage,  will  be  immedi- 
ately named  by  the  Necromancer,  destroyed  by  fire,  and 
reproduced  from  its  own  ashes. 

:^,*<^  An  annuity  of  one  thousand  pounds  has  been  offered 
to  the  Necromancer  by  the  directors  of  the  Sun  Fire  Office  for 
the  secret  of  this  wonder — and  refused!  !  ! 

THE   LOAF   OF    BREAD    WONDER 

The  watch  of  a  truly  prepossessing  lady  of  any  age, 
single  or  married,  being  locked  by  the  Necromancer  in  a 
strong  box,  will  fly  at  the  word  of  command  from  within 
that  box  into  the  heart  of  an  ordinary  half-quartern  loaf, 
whence  it  shall  be  cut  out  in  the  presence  of  the  whole  com- 
pany, whose  cries  of  astonishment  will  be  audible  at  a 
distance  of  some  miles. 

THE    TRAVELLING    DOLL    WONDER 

The  travelling  doll  is  composed  of  solid  wood  through- 
out, but,  by  putting  on  a  travelling  dress  of  the  sim- 
plest construction,  becomes  invisible,  performs  enormous 
journeys  in  half  a  minute,  and  passes  from  visibility  to 
invisibility  with  an  expedition  so  astonishing  that  no  eyes 
can  follow  its  transformations. 

:^*:^  The  Necromancer* s  attendant  usually  faints  on  behold- 
ing this  wonder,  and  is  only  to  be  revived  by  the  administration 
of  brandy  and  water. 


Sleight  of  Hand  239 

THE    PUDDING    WONDER 

The  company  having  agreed  among  themselves  to  offer 
to  the  Necromancer,  by  way  of  loan,  the  hat  of  any  gentle- 
man whose  head  has  arrived  at  maturity  of  size,  the 
Necromancer,  without  removing  that  hat  for  an  instant 
from  before  the  eyes  of  the  delighted  company,  will  light  a 
fire  in  it,  make  a  plum-pudding  in  his  magic  saucepan,  boil 
it  over  the  said  fire,  produce  it  in  two  minutes  thoroughly 
done,  cut  it,  and  dispense  it  in  portions  to  the  whole  com- 
pany, for  their  consumption  then  and  there;  returning  the 
hat  at  last,  wholly  uninjured  by  fire,  to  its  lawful  owner. 

^*:^,  The  extreme  liberality  of  this  wonder  awakening  the 
jealousy  of  the  beneficent  Austrian  Government,  when  ex- 
hibited in  Milan,  the  Necromancer  had  the  honour  to  be 
seized,  and  confined  for  five  years  in  the  fortress  of  that  city. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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